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MEMOIR 


CHARLES     LAMB 


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littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/cliarleslambmemoiOOcorn 


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CMRLES  LAMB 


at  fHrmoir 


BARRY    CORNWALL 

BOSTON 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS 
1 866 


STEREOTYPED    AT    THE 
HUSTON       STKKEDTVPK       FUl/NDKV, 

4  Sfring   Latu. 
Prcsswork  by  John  Wilson  and  Son. 


PREFACE. 


In  my  seventy-seventh  year,  I  have  been 
invited  to  place  on  record  my  recollections  of 
Charles  Lamb. 

I  am,  I  believe,  nearly  the  only  man  now 
surviving  who  knew  much  of  the  excellent 
"  Elia."  Assuredly  I  knew  him  more  inti- 
mately than  any  other  existing  person,  during 
the  last  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  his  life. 

In  this  predicament,  and  because  I  am  proud 
to  associate  my  name  with  his,  I  shall  endeavor 
to  recall  former  times,  and  to  bring  iny  old 
friend  before  the  eyes  of  a  new  generation. 

I  request  the  "  courteous   reader  "  to  accept, 

for  what  they  are  worth,  these  desultory  labors 

of   a    lover    of   letters ;    and    I    hope    that    the 

advocate  for  modern  times  will  tiy  to  admit  into 

A  (o) 


6  PREFACE. 

the  circle  of  his  sympathy  my  recollections  of 
a  fine  Genius  departed. 

No  h;trni  —  possibly  some  benefit  —  ^vill  ac- 
crue to  any  one  who  may  consent  to  extend 
his  acquaintance  to  one  of  the  rarest  and  most 
delicate  of  the  Humorists  of  Enj^land. 

B.    \V.    PllOCTER. 

May,  1 866. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Page 
Introduction.  —  Biography :  Few  Events.  —  One  pre- 
dominant. —  His  Devotion  to  it.  —  Tendency  to  Lit- 
erature. —  First  Studies.  —  Influence  of  .Antique 
Dwellings.  —  Early  Friends.  —  Humor.  —  Quali- 
ties of  Mind.  —  Sympathy  for  neglected  Objects.  — 
A  Nonconformist.  —  Predilections.  —  Character.  — 
Taste.  — Style 11 

CHAPTER    II. 

Birth  and  Parentage. —  Christ's  Hospital.  —  South 
Sea  House  and  India  House.  —  Condition  of  Fam- 
ily. —  Death  of  Mother.  —  Mary  in  Asylum.  —  John 
Lamh.  —  Charles's  ileans  of  Living.  —  His  Home. 

—  Despondency.  —  Alice  W.  —  Brother  and  Sister.     31 

(7) 


S  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    III. 

Jem    White. —  Colcrulgc.  —  Lamb's   Inspiration.  — 
Early  Letters.  —  Poem  published.  —  Charles  Lloyd. 

—  Liking  for  Burns,  ffc.  —  Quakerism.  —  Robert 
Southcy.  —  Southcy  and  Coleridge.  —  Antijacobin. 

—  Rosamond  Gray.  —  George  Dyer.  —  Manning. 

—  Mary's  Illnesses.  —  Migrations.  —  lltsicr  Sa- 
vory  61 

CHAPTER    IV. 

(Migrations.)  —  "  John    Woodvil."  —  Blackesmoor. 

—  Wordswoiih.  —  Rickman.  —  Godwin.  —  Visit 
to  the  Lakes.  —  .Morning  J'ost.  —  Ifuzli/t. — Nel- 
son. —  Ode  to  Tobacco.  —  Dramatic  Specimens, 
Jfc.  —  Inner  Temple  Lane.  —  Reflector.  —  Hogarth 
and  Sir  J.  Reynolds.  —  Leigh  Hunt.  —  Lamb, 
Ilazlitt,  and  Hunt.  —  Russell  Street  and  The- 
atrical Friends 100 

CH  A  I'Ti:  II    V. 

My    Recollections. —  Russdl    Strut.  —  Personal  Ap- 
pearance. —  Manner.  —  7t  ndi  ncy  <•;/"  Mind.  —  I'rcj- 


CONTENTS.  9 

udices.  —  Alleged  Excesses.  —  Mode  of  Life.  —  Love 
of  Smoking. —  Ilis  Lodgings.  —  Ilis  Sister. — 
Costume.  —  Reading  aloud.  —  Tastes  and  Opin- 
ions. —  London.  —  Love  of  Books.  —  Charity.  — 
Wednesday  Parties.  —  His  Companions.  —  Epi- 
taph upon  them. 142 

CHAPTER    VI. 

London  Magazine.  —  Contrihuiois.  —  Transfer  of 
Magazine.  —  3Ionthly  Dinners  and  Visitors.  — 
Colehrook  Cottage.  —  Lamb's  Walks.  —  Essays  of 
Elia  :  Their  Excellence  a7id  Cliaracter.  —  En- 
larged Acquaintance.  —  Visit  to  Paris.  —  Miss 
Isola.  —  Quarrel  with  Southey.  —  Leaves  India 
House.  —  Leisure.  —  Amicus  Redivivus.  — ■  Ed- 
ward Irving 179 

CHAPTER    VII. 

Specimen  of  LarnVs  Humor. —  Death  of  Mr.  Nor- 
ris.  —  Garrick  Plays.  —  Letters  to  Barton.  — 
Opinions  on  Books.  —  Breakfast  with  Mr.  N.  P. 
Willis.  —  Moves  to  Enfield. —  Caricature  of  Lamb . 


lo  CONTENTS. 

—  Albums  and  Acrostics.  —  Pains  of  Leisure  — 
TJic  nation  Correspondence  — Ikaih  of  HazUtt. 

—  Mnndcn's  Acting  and  Quitting  the  Stage.  — 
Lamb  becomes  a  Hoarder.  —  jVoves  to  Edmonton.  — 
Metropolitan  Attachments.—  Death  of  Coleridge. 

—  Lamb's  Fall  and  Death.  —  Death  of  Mary 
Lamb ooa 

POSTSCRIPT. 273 

APPENDIX. 279 


CHARLES    LAMB. 


CHAPTER    I. 


Introduction.  —  Biography:  Few  Events. — 
One  predominant.  —  His  Devotion  to  it. — 
Tendency  to  Literattire.  —  First  Studies.  — 
Influence  of  Antiqjie  Dwellings.  —  Early 
Friends.  —  Humor.  —  Qualities  of  Mind. 
—  Sympathy  flor  neglected  Objects.  —  A  Non- 
conformist. —  'Predilections.  —  Character.  — 
Taste.  —  Style. 

THE  biography  of  Charles  Lamb  lies  with- 
in a  narrow  compass.  It  comprehends 
only  few  events.  His  birth  and  parentage,  and 
domestic  sorrows ;  his  acquaintance  with  re- 
markable men  ;  his  thoughts  and  habits ;  and 
his  migrations  from  one  home  to  another,  —  con- 
stitute the  sum  and  substance  of  his  almost  un- 

(11) 


12  ONE   OBJECT. 

eventful  history.     It  is  a  history  with  one  event, 
predominant. 

For  this  reason,  and  because  I,  in  common 
with  many  others,  hold  a  book  needlessly  large 
to  be  a  <,ncat  c\il,  it  is  my  intention  to  confine 
the  present  memoir  within  moderate  limits. 
My  aim  is  not  to  write  the  "Life  and  Times" 
of  Charles  Lamb.  Lideed,  Lamb  had  no  in- 
fluence on  his  own  times.  He  had  little  or 
nothing  in  common  with  his  generation,  which 
was  almost  a  stranger  to  him.  There  was  no 
reciprocity  between  tliem.  I  lis  contemplations 
were  retrospective.  He  was,  when  living,  the 
centre  of  a  small  social  circle ;  and  I  shall 
therefore  deal  incidentally  with  some  of  its 
members.  In  other  respects,  this  memoir  will 
contain  only  what  I  recollect  and  what  I  have 
learned  from  authentic  sources  of  my  old  friend. 

The  fact  tliat  distinguished  Charles  Lamb 
fnjm  other  men  was  iiis  entire  dev()ti(jn  t(;  one 
grand  and  tender  purpose.  There  is,  probably, 
a  romance  involved   in  everv  life.      In   his  life  it 


EIS  DEVOTION  TO  IT.  13 

exceeded  that  of  others.  In  gravity,  in  acute- 
ness,  in  his  noble  battle  with  a  great  calamity, 
it  was  beyond  the  rest.  Neither  pleasure  nor 
toil  ever  distracted  him  from  his  holy  purpose. 
Everything  was  made  subservient  to  it.  He  had 
an  insane  sister,  who,  in  a  moment  of  uncontrol- 
lable madness,  had  unconsciously  destroyed  her 
own  mother ;  and  to  protect  and  save  this  sister 
—  a  gentle  woman,  who  had  watched  like  a 
mother  over  his  own  infancy  —  the  whole  length 
of  his  life  was  devoted.  What  he  endured, 
through  the  space  of  nearly  forty  years,  from 
the  incessant  fear  and  frequent  recurrence  of  his 
sister's  insanity,  can  now  only  be  conjectured. 
In  this  constant  and  uncomplaining  endurance, 
and  in  his  steady  adherence  to  a  great  principle 
of  conduct,  his  life  was  heroic. 

We  read  of  men  giving  up  all  their  days  to 
a  single  object  —  to  religion,  to  vengeance,  to 
some  overpowering  selfish  wish  ;  of  daring  acts 
done  to  avert  death  or  disgrace,  or  some  oppress- 
ing   misfortune.      We    read     mythical    tales    of 


14  TENDENCY  TO  IJTERATURE. 

iViciulship  ;  but  \vc  do  nut  recollect  an\'  instance 
in  which  a  great  object  has  l)een  so  inireniit- 
tingly  carried  out  throughout  a  whole  lite,  in 
defiance  of  a  thousand  dilliculties,  and  ot'  num- 
berless temptations,  straining  the  gootl  resolution 
to  its  utmost,  except  in  the  case  ot"  our  poor  clerk 
of  the  India  House. 

This  was,  substantially,  his  life.  His  actions, 
thoughts,  and  sufVerings  were  all  concentred  on 
this  one  important  end.  It  was  what  he  had  to 
do  ;  it  was  in  his  reach  ;  and  he  tlid  it,  therefore, 
manfullv,  religiously.  lie  did  not  waste  his 
mind  on  too  manv  things;  for  whatever  tf>o 
much  expands  the  mind  weakens  it ;  nor  on 
vague  or  multitudinous  thoughts  and  specula- 
tions;  nor  on  dreams  or  things  distant  or  un- 
attainable. However  interesting,  they  did  not 
absorb  hiin,  bodv  and  soul,  like  the  safety  and 
welfare  of  his  sister. 

Subject  to  this  piimary  imflinching  purpose, 
the  tendency  of  Lamb's  mind  pointed  strongly 
towards  literature.      He  did  not  seek  literature, 


FIRST  STUDIES.  15 

however ;  and  he  gained  from  it  nothing  except 
his  fame.  He  worked  hxboriously  at  the  India 
House  from  boyhood  to  manhood ;  for  many 
years  without  repining  ;  ahhough  he  must  have 
been  conscious  of  an  intellect  qualified  to  shine 
in  other  ways  than  in  entering  up  a  trader's 
books.  None  of  those  coveted  offices,  which 
bring  money  and  comfort  in  their  train,  ever 
reached  Charles  Lamb.  He  was  never  under 
that  bounteous  shower  which  government  lead- 
ers and  persons  of  influence  direct  towards  the 
heads  of  their  adherents.  No  Dives  ever  selected 
him  for  his  golden  bounty.  No  potent  critic 
ever  shouldered  him  up  the  hill  of  fame.  In  the 
absence  of  these  old-fashioned  helps,  he  was  con- 
tent that  his  own  unassisted  efforts  should  gain 
for  him  a  certificate  of  capability  to  the  world, 
and  that  the  choice  reputation  which  he  thus 
earned  should,  with  his  own  qualities,  bring 
round  him  the  unenvying  love  of  a  host  of 
friends. 

Lamb  had  always  been  a  studious  boy  and  a 


1 6  LOVE   OF  BEADINO. 

great  reader;  ami  after  passing  through  Christ's 
Hospital  and  the  South  Sea  House,  and  being 
for  some  years  in  the  India  House,  this  instinc- 
tive passion  of  his  niintl  (for  literature)  broke 
out.  In  this  he  was,  without  doubt,  influenced 
by  the  example  and  counsel  of  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  his  school-fellow  and  friend,  for 
whom  he  entertained  a  high  and  most  tender 
respect.  The  first  books  which  he  loved  to  read 
were  volumes  of  poetry,  and  essays  on  serious 
and  religious  themes.  The  works  of  all  the  old 
poets,  the  history  of  Qiiakers,  the  biography  of 
Wesley,  the  controversial  papers  of  Priestley, 
and  other  books  on  devout  subjects,  sank  into  his 
mind.  From  reading  he  speedily  rose  to  writ- 
ing ;  from  being  a  reader  he  became  an  author. 
His  first  writings  were  entirely  serious.  These 
were  verses,  or  letters,  wherein  religious  thoughts 
and  secular  criticisms  took  their  places  in  turn  ; 
or  they  were  grave  dramas,  which  exhil)it  and 
lead  to  the  contemplation  of  character,  and  which 
nourish  those  moods  out  of  which  humor  ulti- 
luately  arises. 


PECULIAR  HUMOR.  17 

So  much  has  been  ah'eady  published,  that  it  is 
needless  to  encumber  this  short  narrative  with 
any  minute  enumeration  of  the  qualities  which 
constitute  his  station  in  literature  ;  but  I  shall, 
as  a  part  of  my  task,  venture  to  refer  to  some 
of  those  which  distinguish  him  from  other 
writers. 

Lamb's  very  curious  and  peculiar  humor 
showed  itself  early.  It  was  perhaps  born  of 
the  solitude  in  which  his  childhood  passed 
away ;  perhaps  cherished  by  the  seeds  of  mad- 
ness that  were  in  him,  that  were  in  his  sister, 
that  were  in  the  ancestry  from  which  he  sprung. 
Without  doubt,  it  caught  color  from  the  scenes 
in  the  midst  of  which  he  grew  up.  Born  in 
the  Temple,  educated  in  Christ's  Hospital,  and 
passed  onwards  to  the  South  Sea  House,  his 
first  visions  were  necessarily  of  antiquity.  The 
grave  old  buildings,  tenanted  by  lawyers  and 
their  clerks,  were  replaced  by  "  the  old  and 
awful  cloisters  "  of  the  School  of  Edward  ;  and 
these  in  turn  gave  way  to  the  palace  of  the 
2 


iS  EARLY  FltlENLS. 

famous  Bubble,  now  desolate,  with  its  unpeopled 
Committee  Rooms,  its  pictures  of  Governors  of 
C^ucen  Anne's  time,  "  its  dusty  maps  of  Mexico, 
dim  as  dreams,  and  suundinjjjs  of  llie  ]Jay  of 
Panama."  These  things,  if  thev  impressed  his 
mind  imperfectly  at  fu'st,  in  time  formed  them- 
selves into  the  shape  of  truths,  and  assumed  sig- 
nificance and  importance;  as  words  and  things, 
glanced  over  hastily  in  childhood,  grow  and 
ripen,  and  enricli  the  miderstanding  in  after 
days. 

Lamb's  earliest  friends  and  confidants,  with 
one  exception,  wcro  singularly  void  of  wit  and 
the  love  of  jesting.  His  sister  was  grave; 
his  father  gradually  sinking  inttj  dotage  ;  Cole- 
ridge was  immersed  in  religious  subtilties  and 
jjoetic  dreams ;  and  Cliarles  Lloyd,  sad  and 
logical  and  anahtical,  was  the  antithesis  of 
all  that  is  lively  and  humorous.  But  thoughts 
aud  images  stole  in  from  f)tlK'r  rpiartcrs;  and 
Laml)'s  mind  was  cssentiallv  (|uicU  ami  pro- 
ductive.    Nothing   lay   barren   in    it;    ami   much 


QUALITIES   OF  MIND.  19 

of  what  was  planted  there,  grew,  and  spread, 
and  became  beautiful.  He  himself  has  sown 
the  seeds  of  humor  in  many  English  hearts. 
His  own  humor  is  essentially  English.  It  is 
addressed  to  his  own  countrymen ;  to  the  men 
"  whose  limbs  were  made  in  England ; "  not 
to  foreign  intellects,  nor  perhaps  to  the  uni- 
versal mind.  Humor,  which  is  the  humor  of 
a  man  (of  the  w^-iter  himself  or  of  his  crea- 
tions), must  frequently  remain,  in  its  fragrant 
blossoming  state,  in  the  land  of  its  birth. 
Like  some  of  the  most  delicate  wines  and 
flowers,   it  will  not  boar  travel. 

Apart  from  his  humor  and  other  excel- 
lences, Charles  Lamb  combined  qualities  such 
as  are  seldom  united  in  one  person ;  which  in- 
deed seem  not  easily  reconcilable  with  each 
other :  namely,  much  prudence,  with  much 
generosity ;  great  tendei'ness  of  heart,  with  a 
firm  will.  To  these  was  superadded  that  racy 
humor  which  has  served  to  distinguish  him 
from    other    men.     There    is    no    other  writer, 


20  SYMPATHY. 

that  I  know  of,  in  whom  tenderness,  and  good 
sense,  and  humor  are  so  intimately  and  hap- 
pily blended  ;  no  one  whose  view  of  men  and 
things  is  so  invariably  generous,  and  true,  and 
independent.  Tiiese  (jualities  made  their  way 
slowly  and  fairh'.  They  were  not  takeft  up 
as  a  matter  of  favor  or  fancv,  and  then 
abandoned.  They  struggled  through  many 
years  of  neglect,  and  some  of  contumely,  be- 
fore they  took  their  stand  triumphantly,  and 
as  things   not   to   be   ignored  by  any  one. 

Laml)  pitied  all  objects  which  had  been 
neglected  or  despised.  Nevertheless  the  lens 
through  Avhich  he  viewed  the  objects  of  his 
pity,  —  beggars,  and  chimney-sweepers,  and  con- 
victs,—  was  always  clear:  it  served  him  even 
when  their  short-comings  were  to  be  contem- 
plated. For  he  never  paltered  with  truth. 
lie  had  no  weak  sensibilities,  few  tears  for 
imaginary  griefs.  Ihit  his  heart  opened  wide 
to  real  distress.  He  never  applauded  the 
fault;     but   he    pitied    the   ollemler.      lie   had    a 


A  NONCONFORMIST.  21 

word  of  compassion  for  the  shccp-stealcr,  who 
was  arrested  and  lost  his  ill-acquired  sheep, 
"  his  first,  last,  and  only  hope  of  a  mutton 
pie ; "  and  vented  his  feelings  in  that  sonnet 
(rejected  by  the  magazines)  which  he  has 
called  "  The  Gypsey's  Malison."  Although  he 
was  willing  to  acknowledge  merit  when  it 
was  successful,  he  preferred  it,  perhaps,  when 
it  was  not  clothed  with    prosperity. 

By  education  and  habit,  he  was  a  Unita- 
rian. Indeed,  he  was  a  true  Nonconformist  in 
all  things.  He  was  not  a  dissenter  by  imita- 
tion, nor  from  any  deep  principle  or  obstinate 
heresy ;  nor  was  he  made  servile  and  obedient 
by  formal  logic  alone.  His  reasoning  alwa3"s 
rose  and  streamed  through  the  heart.  He 
liked  a  friend  for  none  of  the  ordinary  rea- 
sons ;  because  he  was  famous,  or  clever,  or 
powerful,  or  popular.  He  at  once  took  issue 
with  the  previous  verdicts,  and  examined  the 
matter  in  his  own  way.  If  a  man  was  unfor- 
tunate, he  gave  him  money.     If  he  was  calum- 


22  PREDILECTIONS. 

niatcd,  lie  accordctl  him  syinpatliy.  lie  gave 
freely  ;    not  t<i  merit,  hut  to  want. 

lie  pursued  his  own  fancies,  his  own  pre- 
dilections. He  did  not  neglect  his  own  in- 
stinct (which  is  always  true),  and  aim  at 
things  foreign  to  his  nature.  He  did  not  cling 
to  any  superior  intellect,  nor  cherish  any  infe- 
rior humorist  or  wit. 

Perhaps  no  one  ever  thought  more  inde- 
pendently. He  had  great  enjoyment  in  the 
talk  of  ahle  men,  so  that  it  did  not  savor  of 
form  or  i:)retension.  He  liked  the  streiuious 
talk  of  Ha/.litt,  who  never  descended  to  fme 
words.  He  liked  the  unatfected,  quiet  conver- 
sation of  Manning,  the  vivacious,  excursive 
talk  of  Leigh  Hunt.  He  hoard  with  wonder- 
ing admiration  the  monologues  of  Coleridge. 
Perhaps  he  liked  the  simplest  talk  the  best ; 
expressions  of  pity  or  sympathy,  or  alTcction 
for  others ;  from  xoung  people,  who  thought 
and  said  little  or  nothing  about  themselves. 

He  had    no  craving  for  ])opularity,  nor  even 


PREDILECTIONS.  23 

for  fame.  I  do  not  recollect  any  passage  in 
his  writings,  nor  any  expression  in  his  talk, 
which  rnns  connter  to  my  opinion.  In  this 
respect  he  seems  to  have  differed  from  Milton 
(who  desired  fame,  like  "  Blind  Thamyris  and 
blind  Maeonides"),  and  to  have  mther  resem- 
bled Shakespeare,  who  was  indifferent  to  fame 
or  assured  of  it ;  but  perhaps  he  resembled  no 
one. 

Lamb  had  not  many  personal  antipathies, 
but  he  had  a  strong  aversion  to  pretence  and 
false  repute.  In  particular,  he  resented  the 
adulation  of  the  epitaph-mongers  who  endeav- 
ored to  place  Garrick,  the  actor,  on  a  level 
with  Shakespeare.  Of  that  greatest  of  all  po- 
ets he  has  said  such  things  as  I  imagine 
Shakespeare  himself  would  have  liked  to  hear. 
He  has  also  uttered  brave  words  in  behalf  of 
Shakespeare's  contemporary  dramatists ;  partly 
because  they  deserved  them,  partly  because 
they  were  unjustly  forgotten.  The  sentence  of 
oblivion,    passed  by  ignorant   ages   on  the   rep- 


24  PREDILECTIONS. 

utation  of  these  fine  authors,  he  has  annulled, 
and  forced  the  world  to  confess  that  preced- 
ing judges  were  incompetent  to  entertain  the 
case. 

I  cannot  imagine  the  mind  of  Charles  Lamb, 
even  in  early  boyhood,  to  have  been  weak  or 
childish.  In  his  first  letters  you  see  that  he 
was  a  thinker.  He  is  for  a  time  made  som- 
bre by  unhappy  reflections.  He  is  a  reader 
of  thoughtful  books.  The  witticisms  which  he 
coined  for  sixpence  eacli  (for  the  Morning 
CJironicle)  liad,  no  dou])t,  less  of  metallic 
lustre  than  those  which  he  afterwards  medi- 
tated ;  and  which  \vere  higldy  estimated. 
liffodiiDttur  opes.  His  jests  were  never  the 
mere  overflowings  of  the  animal  spirits,  but 
were  exercises  of  the  mind.  He  brought  the 
wisdom  of  old  times  and  old  writers  to  bear 
upon  tiie  taste  and  intellect  of  his  dav.  What 
was  in  a  maimer  foreign  to  his  age,  he  nat- 
uralized and  cherished.  And  he  did  this  with 
judgment     and      great      delicacy.        His    l)ool<s 


PREDILECTIONS.  2$ 

never  unhinge  or  weaken  the  mind,  but  bring 
before  it  tender  and  beautiful  thoughts,  which 
charm  and  nourish  it  as  only  good  books  can. 
No  one  was  ever  worse  from  reading  Charles 
Lamb's  writings ;  but  many  have  become 
wiser  and  better.  Sometimes,  as  he  hints, 
"  he  affected  that  dangerous  figure,  irony ; " 
and  he  would  sometimes  interrupt  grave  dis- 
cussion, when  he  thought  it  too  grave,  with 
some  light  jest,  which  nevertheless  was  "  not 
quite  irrelevant."  Long  talkers,  as  he  con- 
fesses, "  hated  him  ;  "  and  assui-edly  he  hated 
long  talkers. 

In  his  countenance  you  might  sometimes 
read  —  what  may  be  occasionally  read  on  al- 
most all  foreheads  —  the  letters  and  lines  of 
old,  unforgotten  calamity.  Yet  there  was  at 
the  bottom  of  his  nature  a  buoyant  self-sus- 
taining strength ;  for  although  he  encountered 
frequent  seasons  of  mental  distress,  his  heart 
recovered  itself  in  the  interval,  and  rose  and 
sounded,  like  music  played  to    a   happy  tune. 


26  TASTE. 

Upon  fit  occasion,  his  lips  could  shut  in  a 
firm  fashion  ;  but  the  gentle  smile  that  played 
about  his  face  showed  that  he  was  always 
ready  to  relent.  His  quick  eye  never  liad 
any  sullenness :  his  mouth,  tender  and  trem- 
ulous, showed  that  there  would  be  nothing 
cruel  or    inflexiljle   in    liis  natme. 

On  referring  to  his  letters,  it  must.be  con- 
fessed that  in  literature  Lamb's  taste,  like  that 
of  all  others,  was  at  first  imperfect.  For 
taste  is  a  portion  of  our  judgment,  and  must 
depend  a  good  deal  on  our  experience,  and 
on  our  opportimities  of  comparing  the  claims 
of  difierent  2:)retenders.  Lamb's  allections 
swayed  him  at  all  times.  lie  sympathized 
deeply  with  Cowper  and  his  melancholy  his- 
tory, and  at  first  estimated  his  verse,  perhaps, 
beyond  its  strict  value.  He  was  intimate 
with  Soulliey,  and  anticipated  that  he  woidd 
rival  Milton.  Then  his  taste  was  at  all 
times  peculiar.  He  seldom  worshijiped  the 
Idol    wliicli   tlie   multit\i<le   had    set    tip.       I   was 


STYLE.  27 

never  able  to  prevail  on  him  to  admit  that 
"Paradise  Lost"  v\^as  greater  than  "Paradise 
Regained ; "  I  believe,  indeed,  he  liked  the 
last  the  best.  He  would  not  discuss  the  Po- 
etry of  Lord  Byron  or  Shelley,  with  a  view 
of  being  convinced  of  their  beauties.  Apart 
from  a  few  points  like  these,  his  opinions 
must  be  allowed  to  be  sound  ;  almost  always  ; 
if  not  as  to  the  style  of  the  author,  then  as 
to  the  quality  of  his  book  or  passage  which 
he  chose  to  select.  And  his  own  style  was 
always  good,  from  the  beginning,  in  verse  as 
well  as  in  prose.  His  first  sonnets  are  un- 
aftected,  well  sustained,  and  well  written. 

I  do  not  know  much  of  the  opinion  of 
others  ;  but  to  my  thinking  the  style  of  Charles 
Lamb,  in  his  "  Elia,"  and  in  the  letters  writ- 
ten by  him  in  the  later  (the  last  twenty)  years 
of  his  life,  is  full  of  grace ;  not  antiquated, 
but  having  a  touch  of  antiquity.  It  is  self- 
possessed,  choice,  delicate,  penetrating,  his 
words    running    into    the    innermost    sense    of 


2S  STYLE. 

thin<js.  It  is  not,  indeed,  adapted  to  the 
meanest  capacit) ,  l)ul  is  racy,  and  chaste,  after 
his  fashion.  Perliaps  it  is  sometimes  scrip- 
tural :  at  all  events  it  is  always  earnest  and  sin- 
cere, lie  was  painfulh'  in  earnest  in  his  advo- 
cacy of  Ila/.litt  and  Hunt,  and  in  his  pleadings 
for  Hogarth  and  the  old  dramatists.  Even  in  his 
humor,  his  llctitious  (as  well  as  his  real)  per- 
sonages have  a  character  of  reality  about  them 
\vhich  gives  them  their  standaril  value.  Tiiey 
all  ring  like  true  coin.  In  conversation  he 
loved  to  discuss  persons  or  books,  and  seldom 
\entured  upon  the  stormy  sea  of  politics;  his 
intimates  lying  on  the  two  opposite  shores, 
Liberal  and  Tory.  Yet,  when  occasion  moved 
him,  he  did  not  refuse  to  express  his  liberal 
opinions.  There  was  little  or  nothing  cloudy 
or  vague  about  him  ;  he  recpiiied  that  there 
should  be  known  ground  even  in  iiction.  He 
rejected  the  poems  of  Shelley  (many  of  them 
so  consummately  beautiful),  because  they  ^vere 
loo  exclusively    iileal.        Tiieir    elllorescence,  he 


STYLE.  29 

thought,  was  not  natural.  He  preferred 
Southey's  "Don  Roderick"  to  his  "Curse  of 
Kchama ; "  of  which  hitter  poem  he  says,  "  I 
don't  feel  that  firm  footing  in  it  that  I  do  in 
'  Roderick.'  My  imagination  goes  sinking 
and  floundering  in  the  vast  sjDaces  of  unopened 
systems  and  faiths.  I  am  put  out  of  tlae  pale 
of  my  old  sympathies." 

Charles  Lamb  had  much  respect  for  some 
of  the  modern  authors.  In  particular,  he  ad- 
mired (to  the  full  extent  of  his  capacity  for 
liking)  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth,  and  Burns. 
But  with  these  exceptions  his  affections  rested 
mainly  on  writers  who  had  lived  before  him ; 
on  soi?ie  of  them  ;  for  there  were  "  things  in 
books'  clothing"  from  which  he  turned  away 
loathing.  He  was  not  a  worshipper  of  the 
customs  and  manners  of  old  times,  so  much 
as  of  the  tangible  objects  that  old  times  have 
bequeathed  to  us ;  the  volumes  tinged  with  de- 
cay, the  buildings  (the  Temple,  Christ's  Hos- 
pital, &c.)  colored  and  enriched  by  the  hand 
of  age.      Apart    from    these,    he    clung  to  the 

B 


30  STYLE. 

time  present;    for  if  he    hated  an) thing  in  the 
extreme  degree,  he  hated  change,  v 

lie  chnig  to  life,  although  life  had  bestowed 
upon  him  no  magnificent  gifts;  none,  indeed, 
beyond  books,  and  friends  (a  "  ragged  regi- 
ment"), and  an  alfectionate,  contented  mind. 
He  had,  he  confesses,  "  an  intolerable  disincli- 
nation to  dying ;  "  which  beset  him  especially 
in  the  w  inter  months.  "  I  am  not  content  to 
pass  away  like  a  weaver's  sluittle.  Any  al- 
teration in  this  earth  of  mine  discomposes 
me.  My  household  gods  plant  a  terrible  iixed 
foot,  and  are  not  rootetl  up  williout  blood." 
He  seems  never  to  have  looked  into  the -Fu- 
ture. His  eyes  were  on  the  present  or 
(oftener)  on  Uie  past.  It  was  always  thus 
from  his  boyhood.  His  first  readings  were 
principally  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massingcr, 
Isaac  Walton,  &c.  "  I  gather  myself  up  "  (he 
writes)  "unto  the  old  things."  He  has  in- 
deed extracted  the  beauty  and  innermost  value 
of  Antiquity,  wlieuever  he  has  pressed  it  into 
his  service. 


(  31  ) 


CHAPTER    II. 

Birth  and  Parentage.  —  Christ's  Hospital.  — 
South  Sea  Ho2ise  and  India  House.  —  Con- 
dition of  Family.  —  Death  of  Mother. — 
Mary  iji  Asylum.  —  fohn  Lamb.  —  Charles's 
Means  of  Liviiig.  —  His  Home.  —  Despond- 
ency.—  Alice  W.  —  Brother  and  Sister. 

.N  the  south  side  of  Fleet  Street,  near  to 
where  it  adjoins  Temple  Bar,  lies  the  In- 
ner Temple.  It  extends  southward  to  the 
Thames,  and  contains  long  ranges  of  melancholy 
buildings,  in  which  lawyers  (those  reputed  birds 
of  prey)  and  their  followers  congregate.  It  is 
a  district  very  memorable.  About  seven  hun- 
dred years  ago,  it  was  the  abiding-place  of  the 
Knights  Templars,  who  erected  there  a  church, 
which  still  uplifts  its  round  tower  (its  sole  relic) 
for  the  wonder  of  modern  times.  Fifty  years 
since,   I   remember,   you   entered   the    precinct 


32  Blirril  AND    rAItENTAOK. 

through  a  lowering  archway  that  opened  into  a 
gloomy  passage  —  Inner  Temple  Lane.  On  the 
cast  side  rose  the  church  ;  and  on  the  west  was 
a  dark  line  of  chambers,  since  pulled  down  and 
rel)uilt,  and  now  called  Jolmson's  Buildings. 
At  some  distance  westward  was  an  o^^cn  court, 
in  whicli  was  a  sun-dial,  and,  in  the  midst,  a 
solitary  fountain,  that  sent  its  silvery  voice  into 
the  air  above,  the  murmur  of  which,  descend- 
ing, seemed  to  render  the  place  more  lonely. 
^Midway,  between  the  Inner  Temple  Lane  and 
the  Thames,  was,  and  I  believe  still  is,  a  range 
of  sul)stantial  chambers  (overlooking  tlic  gar- 
de<is  and  the  busy  river),  called  Crown  OiTicc 
Row.  In  one  of  these  cliambers,  on  the  iSth 
day  of  l-\bruary,  1775,  Charles  Lamb  was 
born. 

lie  was  the  son  of  John  and  Elizabeth  Lamb  ; 
and  he  and  his  brother  John  and  his  sister  Mary 
(both  of  v.hom  were  considerably  older  tlian 
himself)  were  the  only  children  of  their  parents. 
Jolui     was    twelve    years,   and    Mary    (properly 


BIRTH  AND  PARENTAGE.  33 

Mary  Anne)  was  tea  years  older  than  Charles. 
Their  father  held  the  post  of  clerk  to  Mr. 
Samuel  Salt,  a  barrister,  one  of  the  benchers 
of  the  Inner  Temple ;  a  mild,  amiable  man, 
very  indolent,  very  shy,  and,  as  I  imagine, 
not  much  known  in  what  is  called  "  tlie  pro- 
fession." 

Lamb  sprang,  paternally,  from  a  humble 
stock,  which  had  its  root  in  the  county  of  Lin- 
coln. At  one  time  of  his  life  his  father  appears 
to  have  dwelt  at  Stamford.  In  his  imaginary 
ascent  from  plain  Charles  Lamb  to  Pope  Inno- 
cent, one  of  the  gradations  is  Lord  Stamford. 
His  mother's  family  came  from  Hertfordshire, 
where  his  grandmother  was  a  housekeeper  in 
the  Plumer  family,  and  where  several  of  his 
cousins  long  resided.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
trace  his  ancestry  (of  which  he  wisely  made  no 
secret)  beyond  two  or  three  generations.  In  an 
agreeable  sonnet,  entitled  "  The  Family  Name," 
he  speaks  of  his  sire's  sire,  but  no  further : 
"We  trace  our  stream  no  higher."  Then  he 
3 


34  ciunsrs  j/osr/'j'AL. 

runs  into  some  pleasant  conjeclures  as  to  his 
possible  progenitors,  of  whom  he  knew  nothing. 

"Perhaps  some  bhepherd  on  Lincolnian  plains," 

he  says,  first  received  the  name  ;  perhaps  some 
martial  lord,  returned  from  "  holy  Salem  ;  "  and 
then  he  concludes  with  a  resolve, — 

•'  No  deed  of  mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  Name," 

which  he  kept  religiously  throughout  his  life. 

When  Charles  was  between  seven  and  eight 
years  of  age,  he  became  a  scholar  in  Christ's 
Hospital,  a  presentation  having  been  given  to 
his  father,  for  tlie  son's  benefit.  lie  entered 
that  celebrated  scliool  on  the  ylh  of  October, 
17S2,  and  remained  there  until  the  23d  No- 
vember, 17S9,  being  then  between  fourteen 
and  fifteen  years  old.  The  records  of  his 
boyhootl  are  very  scanty.  He  was  always  a 
grave,  inquisitive  boy.  Once,  when  walking 
with  his  sister  tln-ough  some  churchyard,  he 
inquired  anxiously,  ''  Where  do  the  naughty 
people  lit?"   tlie  un(iual:tie(l   panegyrics  which 


CnmSTS  HOSPITAL.  35 

he  encountered  on  the  tombstones  doubtless 
suggesting  the  inquiry.  Mr.  Samuel  Le  Grice 
(his  schoolfellow)  states  that  he  was  an  amiable, 
gentle  youth,  very  sensible,  and  keenly  obsei-v- 
ing ;  that  "  his  complexion  was  clear  brown, 
his  countenance  mild,  his  eyes  differing  in  color, 
and  that  he  had  a  slow  and  "jDeculiar  walk." 
He  adds  that  he  was  never  mentioned  without 
the  addition  of  his  Christian  name,  Charles, 
hnplying  a  general  feeling  of  kindness  towards 
him.  His  delicate  frame  and  difficulty  of  ut- 
terance, it  is  said,  unfitted  him  for  joining  in 
any  boisterous  sports. 

After  he  left  Christ's  Hospital,  he  returned 
home,  where  he  had  access  to  the  large  mis- 
cellaneous library  of  Mr.  Salt.  He  and  his 
sister  were  (to  use  his  own  words)  "  tumbled 
into  a  spacious  closet  of  good  old  English 
reading,  and  browsed  at  will  on  that  fair  and 
wholesome  pasturage."  This,  however,  could 
not  have  lasted  long,  for  it  was  the  destiny  of 
Charles  Lamb  to  be  compelled  to  labor  ahiiost 


36  CJiniST'S  HOSPITAL. 

from  his  boyhood.  lie  was  able  to  read  Greek, 
and  had  acquired  great  facility  in  Latin  com- 
position, when  he  left  the  Ilosjiital ;  but  an 
unconquerable  impediment  in  his  speech  dc- 
l^rivcd  him  of  an  "exhibition"  in  the  school, 
and,  as  a  consequence,  of  the  benefit  of  a  col- 
lege education. 

The  state  of  Christ's  Hospital,  at  the  time 
when  Lamb  was  a  scholar  there,  may  be  ascer- 
tained with  tolerable  correctness  from  his  two 
essays,  entitled  "  Recollections  of  Christ's  Hos- 
pital," and  '•  Christ's  Hospital  five  and  thirty 
years  ago."  These  pajicrs  wlien  read  together 
show  the  different  (favorable  and  unfavorable) 
points  of  this  great  establishment.  They  leave 
no  doubt  as  to  its  extensive  utility.  Although, 
strictly  speaking,  it  was  a  charitable  home  for 
the  sustenance  and  education  of  boys,  slenderly 
provided,  or  imi:)r()vided,  with  the  means  of 
learning,  they  were  neither  lifted  up  beyond 
their  own  family  nor  depressed  by  mean  habits, 
such  as  hn  ordinary  charily  school  is  supposed  to 


CIIBISrS  HOSPITAL.  37 

generate.  They  floated  onwards  towards  man- 
hood in  a  wholesome  middle  region,  between  a 
too  rare  ether  and  the  dense  and  abject  atmos- 
phere of  pauperism.  The  Hospital  boy  (as 
Lamb  says)  never  felt  himself  to  be  a  charity 
boy.  The  antiquity  and  regality  of  the  founda- 
tion to  which  he  belonged,  and  the  mode  or 
style  of  his  education,  sublimated  him  beyond 
the  heights  of  the  laboring  classes. 

From  the  "  Christ's  Hospital  five  and  thirty 
years  ago,"  it  would  appear  that  the  comforts 
enjoyed  by  Lamb  himself  exceeded  those  of  his 
schoolfellows,  owing  to  his  friends  supplying 
him  with  extra  delicacies.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  great  tyranny  was  then  exercised  by  the 
older  boys  (the  monitors)  over  the  younger 
\Dnes ;  "that  the  scholars  had  anything  but  choice 
and  ample  rations  ;  and  that  hunger  ("  the  eld- 
est, strongest  of  the  passions  ")  was  not  a  tyrant 
unknown  throughout  this  large  institution. 
■  Lamb  remained  at  Christ's  Hospital  for 
seven  years  ;  but   on   the  half-holidays    (two  in 

B  * 


3S  CUIUS  rs  HOSPITAL. 

every  week)  he  used  to  go  to  his  parents' 
home,  in  the  Temple,  and  when  there  would 
muse  on  the  terrace  or  by  the  lonely  fountain, 
or  contemplate  the  dial,  or  pore  over  the  books 
in  Mr.  Salt's  library,  until  those  aiiti(jucly- 
colored  thoughts  rose  up  in  his  mind  whicli 
in  after  years  he  presented  to   the  world. 

Amongst  the  advantages  which  Charles  de- 
rived from  his  stay  at  Christ's  Hospital,  was 
one  which,  although  accidental,  was  destined 
to  have  great  eflcct  on  his  subsequent  life.  It 
happened  that  he  reckoned  amongst  his  school- 
fellows one  who  afterwards  achieved  a  very 
extensive  reputation,  namclv,  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge.  This  ynutli  was  his  elder  by  two 
years ;  and  his  example  influenced  Lamb  ma- 
terially on  many  occasions,  and  ultimately  led 
him  into  literature.  Coleridge's  projects,  at 
the  outset  of  life,  were  vacillating.  In  this 
respect  Lamb  was  no  follower  of  his  school- 
fellow, his  own  career  being  steady  and  un- 
swerving   from    his    entrance    into    the    India 


CERISrS  HOSPITAL.  39 

House  until  the  day  of  his  freedom  from  ser- 
vice—  between  thirty  and  forty  years.  His 
literary  tastes,  indeed,  took  independently  al- 
most the  same  tone  as  those  of  his  friend ; 
and  their  religious  views  (for  Coleridge  in  his 
early  years  became  a  Unitarian)  were  the  same. 
When  Coleridge  left  Christ's  Hospital  he 
went  to  the  University  —  to  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge ;  but  came  back  occasionally  to 
London,  where  the  intimacy  between  him  and 
Lamb  was  cemented.  Their  meetings  at  the 
smoky  little  public  house  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Smithfield, — the  "Salutation  and  Cat,"  —  con- 
secrated by  pipes  and  tobacco  (Orinoco),  by 
egg-hot  and  Welsh  rabbits,  and  metaphysics 
and  poetry,  are  exultingly  referred  to  in 
Lamb's  letters.  Lamb  entertained  for  Cole- 
ridge's genius  the  greatest  respect,  until  death 
dissolved  their  friendship.  In  his  earliest 
verses  (so  dear  to  a  young  poet)  he  used  to 
submit  his  thoughts  to  Coleridge's  amendments 
or   critical   suggestions ;    and    on    one  occasion 


40  SOUTH  SEA   HOUSE. 

•vvas  obliged  to  cry  out,  "Sparc  my  cwc  lambs: 
they  arc  the  rcllcctcd  images  of  my  own 
feelings." 

It  was  at  a  very  tender  age  that  Charles 
LamI)  entered  tlie  "  work-a-day "  workl.  His 
elder  brother,  John,  had  at  that  time  a  clerk- 
ship in  the  South  Sea  House,  anil  Charles 
passed  a  short  time  there  under  his  bnjther's 
care  or  coiitnjl,  and  must  thus  have  gained 
some  knowledge  of  hgurcs.  The  precise 
nature  of  his  occupation  in  this  deserted 
place,  however  (where  some  forms  of  busi- 
ness were  kept  up,  ''  though  the  soul  be  long 
since  fled,"  and  where  the  directors  met 
mainly  "to  declare  a  dcatl  dividend"),  is  not 
stated  in  the  charming  paper  of  "  The  South 
Sea  House."  Charles  remained  in  this  oflicc 
only  until  the  5th  April,  179-,  when  he  olv 
taincd  an  appointment  (through  the  influence, 
I  believe,  of  Mr.  Salt)  as  clerk  in  the  Ac- 
countant's C)flice  of  the  East  India  Company. 
He   was   then   seventeen  ^ears  of  age. 


CONDITION  OF  TEE  FAMILY.  41 

About  three  years  after  Charles  became  a 
clerk  in  the  India  House,  his  family  appear 
to  have  moved  from  Crown  Office  Row  into 
poor  lodgings  at  No.  7  Little  Queen  Sti'eet, 
Holborn.  His  father  at  that  time  had  a  small 
pension  from  Mr.  Salt,  whose  service  he  had 
left,  being  almost  fatuous  ;  his  mother  was  ill 
and  bedridden  ;  and  his  sister  Mary  was  tired 
out,  by  needle-work  all  day,  and  by  taking  care 
of  her  mother  throughout  the  night.  "  Of  all 
the  people  in  the  world  "  (Charles  says),  "she 
was  most  thoroughly  devoid  of  all  selfishness." 
There  was  also,  as  a  member  of  the  family, 
an  old  aunt,  who  had  a  trifling  annuity  for 
her  life,  which  she  poured  into  the  common 
fund.  John  Lamb  (Charles's  elder  brother) 
lived  elsewhere,  having  occasional  intercourse 
only  with  his  kindred.  He  continued,  how- 
ever, to  visit  them,  whilst  he  preserved  his 
"  comfortable "  clerkship  in  the  South  Sea 
House. 

It  was  under    this    state    of  things  that  they 


42  DEAril  OF  MOTH  Eli. 

all  drifted  do\vn  to  the  terrible  year  1796.  It 
Avas  a  year  dark  \vith  horror.  There  was  an 
hereditary  taint  of  insiuiity  in  the  family,  which 
caiised  even  Charles  himself  to  be  placed,  for 
a  short  time,  in  Iloxton  Lunatic  Asylum. 
'*  The  six  weeks  that  finished  last  year  and 
began  this  (1796),  your  very  humble  servant 
spent  very  agreeably  in  a  m.idhousc,  at  Ilox- 
ton." These  are  his  words  when  writing  to 
Coleridge. 

Mary  Lamb  had  previously  been  repeatedly 
attacked  bv  the  sai^ie  dreadful  disorder;  and 
this  now  broke  out  afresh  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  acute  madness.  She  had  been  moody  and  ill 
for  soine  little  time  previously,  and  the  illness 
came  to  a  crisis  on  the  23d  of  vSeptembcr, 
1796.  On  that  day,  just  before  dinner,  Mary 
seized  a  ''case-knife"  which  was  lying  on 
the  table,  pursued  a  little  girl  (her  ap])ren- 
tice)  round  the  room,  hurled  alx^ut  the  din- 
ner forks,  and  Ihially,  in  a  ilt  of  uncontrolla- 
ble   frenzy,    stabbed    her    motiier   to    the    heart. 


FRIENDS   OF  THE  FAMILY.  43 

Charles  was  at  hand  only  in  time  to  snatch 
the  knife  out  of  her  grasp,  before  further  hurt 
could  be  done.  He  found  his  father  wounded 
in  the  forehead  by  one  of  the  forks,  and  his 
aunt  lying  insensible,  and  apparently  dying,  on 
the  floor  of  the  room. 

This  happened  on  a  Thursday ;  and  on 
the  following  day  an  inquest  was  held  on  the 
mother's  body,  and  a  verdict  of  Mary's  luna- 
cy was  immediately  found  by  the  jury.  The 
Lambs  had  a  few  friends.  Mr.  Norris  —  the 
friend  of  Charles's  father  and  of  his  own 
childhood  —  "  was  very  kind  to  us  ;  "  and  Sam. 
Le  Grice  "  then  in  town "  (Charles  writes) 
"  was  as  a  brother  to  me,  and  gave  up  every 
hour  of  his  time  in  constant  attendance  on 
my  father." 

After  the  fatal  deed,  Mary  Lamb  was  deeply 
afflicted.  Her  act  was  in  the  first  instance 
totally  unknown  to  her.  Afterwards,  when 
her  consciousness  returned  and  she  was  in- 
formed of    it,  she    suflered   great  grief.       And 


44  SISTER  IN  AN  ASYLUM. 

subsequently,  when  she  became  "  cahn  and 
serene,"  and  saw  the  misfortune  in  a  clearer 
light,  this  was  "  far,  very  far  from  an  indecent 
or  forgetful  serenity,"  as  her  brother  says. 
She  had  no  defiant  air,  no  aflcctation,  nor  too 
extravagant  a  ilisplay  of  sorrow.  She  saw  her 
act,  as  she  saw  all  other  things,  by  the  light 
of  her  own  clear  and  gentle  good  sense.  She 
was  sad  ;  but  the  deed  was  past  recall,  and 
at  the  time  of  its  commission  had  been  ut- 
terly beyond  either  her  control  or  knowledge. 
After  the  inquest,  Mary  Lamb  was  placed 
in  a  lunatic  asylum,  where,  after  a  short 
time,  she  recovered  her  serenity.  A  rapid 
recovery  after  violent  madness  is  not  an  unu- 
sual mark  of  the  disease ;  it  being  in  cases 
of  (juict,  inveterate  insanity,  that  the  return 
to  sound  mind  (if  it  ever  recur)  is  more 
gradual  and  slow.  'J'lie  recovery,  however, 
was  only  temporary  in  her  case.  She  was 
throughout  her  life  subject  to  frequent  recur- 
rences   of    the     same    disease.        At    one   time 


LEi'T  ALONE.  45 

her  brother  Charles  writes,  "  Poor  Mary's 
disorder  so  frequently  recurring  has  made  us 
a  sort  of  marked  people."  At  another  time 
he  says,  "  I  consider  her  as  perpetually  on 
the  brink  of  madness."  And  so,  indeed,  she 
continued  during  the  remainder  of  her  life ; 
and  she  lived  to  the  age  of  eighty-two 
years. 

-  Charles  was  now  left  alone  in  the  world. 
His  father  was  imbecile ;  his  sister  insane ;  and 
his  brother  afforded  no  substantial  assistance 
or  comfort.  He  was  scarcely  out  of  boyhood 
when  he  learned  that  the  world  has  its  dan- 
gerous places  and  barren  deserts  ;  and  that  he 
had  to  struggle  for  his  living,  without  help. 
He  found  that  he  had  to  take  upon  himself 
all  the  cares  of  a  parent  or  protector  (to  his 
sister)  even  before  he  had  studied  the  duties 
of  a  man. 

Sudden  as  death  came  down  the  necessary 
knowledge  :  how  to  live,  and  how  to  live  well. 
The   terrible   event   that   had  fallen   upon  him 


46  Mh'ANS    OF   IJVISa. 

and  his,  instead  of  castinj^  him  down,  and 
paralyzing  his  powers,  braced  and  strung  his 
sinews  into  preternatural  llrnmess.  It  is  the 
character  of  a  feeble  mind  to  lie  prostrate  be- 
fore the  first  adversary.  In  his  case  it  lifted 
him  out  (jf  tliat  momentary  despair  which 
always  follows  a  great  calamity.  It  was  like 
extreme  cold  to  the  system,  which  often  over- 
throws the  weak  and  timid,  but  gives  additional 
strength  and  power  of  endurance  to  tlie  brave 
and  the   strong. 

"My  aunt  was  lying  apparently  d}ing" 
(writes  Lamb),  "  my  father  with  a  Nvound  on 
his  poor  fcjrehead,  ami  my  motlier  a  murdered 
corpse,  in  the  next  room.  I  felt  that  I  bad 
something  else  to  do  than  to  regret.  /  //ad 
the  w/iolc  ivcig/it  of  the  family  iipoti  fiie ; 
for  my  brother  —  little  disposed  at  an}-  time 
to  take  care  of  old  age  and  infirmity — lias 
now,  with  his  bad  leg,  exemption  from  such 
duties;    and   I   am   now  left  alone." 

In    alxjut    a    monlh    after  his    mother's    death 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER.  47 

(3d  October),  Cluirlcs  \vritcs,  "My  poor,  dear, 
dearest  sister,  the  unhappy  and  unconscious 
instrument  of  the  Ahuighty's  jndgment  on  our 
house,  is  restored  to  her  senses ;  to  a  dread- 
ful sense  of  what  has  passed ;  awful  to  her 
mind,  but  tempered  with  a  religious  resigna- 
tion. She  knows  how  to  distinguish  between 
a  deed  committed  in  a  fit  of  frenzy  and  the 
terrible  guilt  of  a  mother's  murder."  In 
another  place  he  says,  "  She  bears  her  situa- 
tion as  one  who  has  no  right  to  complain." 
He  himself  visits  her  and  upholds  her,  and 
rejoices  in  her  continued  reason.  For  her  use 
he  borrows  books  ("  for  reading  was  her 
daily  bread"),  and  gives  up  his  time  and  all 
his  thoughts  to  her  comfort. 

Thus,  in  their  quiet  grief,  making  no  show, 
yet  suffering  more  than  could  be  shovN^n  by 
clamorous  sobs  or  frantic  words,  the  two  — 
brother  and  lister  —  enter  upon  the  bleak 
world  together.  "  Her  love,"  as  Mr.  Words- 
worth states  in  the  epitaph  on  Charles  Lamb, 


48  JOHN  LAM/J. 

"was  as  tlic  love  of  mothers"  towards  her 
brother,  ll  may  l)e  said  that  his  love  for  her 
was  the  deep  life-lonjj;  love  of  the  teiulerest 
son.  In  one  letter  he  writes,  "  It  was  not  a 
family  where  I  could  take  Mary  with  me  ;  and 
I  am  afraid  that  there  is  something  of  dis- 
honesty in  any  pleasures  I  take  without  her." 
'Many  years  afterwards  (in  1S34,  the  very 
year  in  which  he  died)  he  writes  to  Miss 
Fryer,  '•  It  is  no  new  thing  for  me  to  be  left 
with  my  sister.  When  she  is  not  violent,  /jcr 
rambling  chat  is  better  to  vie  t/ia/i  the  sense 
and  sanity  of  the  zvorUr  Surely  there  is 
great  depth  of  pathos  in  these  unalVcctcd 
words;  in  the  love  that  has  outlasted  all  the 
troubles  of  life,  and  is  thus  tenderly  expressed, 
almost  at  his  last  hour. 

John  Lamb,  the  elder  brother  of  Charles, 
belli  a  clerkship,  with  some  considerable  sal- 
ary, in  the  South  Sea  House.  I  do  not  retain 
an  agreeable  impression  of  him.  If  n<^t  rude, 
lie    was     sometimes,    indeed    generally,    abrupt 


JOHN  LAMB.  49 

and  unprepossessing  in  manner.  He  was  as- 
suredly deficient  in  that  coui-tesy  which  usually 
springs  from  a  mind  at  friendship  with  the 
world.  Nevertheless,  without  much  reasoning 
power  (apparently),  he  had  much  cleverness 
of  character ;  except  when  he  had  to  pur- 
chase paintings,  at  which  times  his  judgment 
was  often  at  fault.  One  of  his  sayings  is  men- 
tioned in  the  (Elia)  essay  of  "  My  Relations." 
He  seems  to  have  been,  on  one  occasion,  con- 
templating a  group  of  Eton  boys  at  play,  when 
he  observed,  "  What  a  pity  it  is  to  think  that 
these  fine  ingenuous  lads  will  some  day  be 
changed  into  frivolous  members  of  Parliament?" 
Like  some  persons  who,  although  case-hardened 
at  home,  overflow  with  sympathy  towards  dis- 
tant objects,  he  cared  less  for  the  feelings  of 
his  neighbor  close  at  hand  than  for  the  eel  out 
of  water  or  the  oyster  disturbed  in  its  shell. 

John    Lamb  was   the  favorite  of  his  mother, 
as  the  deformed  child  is  frequently  the  dearest. 
"  She   would    always    love    my   brother    above 
4 


50  MEANS   OF  LIVING. 

Mary,"  Charles  writes  in  1796,  "although  he 
was  not  worth  one  tentli  of  tlic  aflection  which 
Mary  liad  a  rij^^ht  to  claim.  Poor  Marv  !  mv 
mother  never  understood  her  ri<,dit."  In 
another  place  (after  he  had  been  unburdcnint,^ 
his  heart  to  Coleridge),  he  writes  cautiously, 
"  S//ICC  this  has  happened,"  —  tlie  death  of  his 
mother,  —  "he  has  been  very  kind  and  broth- 
erly; but  I  fear  for  his  mind.  He  has  taken 
his  ease  in  the  world,  and  is  not  fit  to  strug- 
gle with  diftlculties.  Thank  God,  I  can  un- 
connect  myself  with  him,  and  sliall  manage 
my  father's  moneys  myself,  if  I  take  charge 
of  Daddy,  wliicli  poor  John  has  not  hinted  a 
wish  at  any  future  time  to  share  with  me." 
Mary  herself,  when  she  was  recovering,  said 
that  "  she  knew  she  must  go  to  Bethleiiem 
for  life  ;  that  one  of  her  brothers  would  have 
it  so  ;  the  other  would  not  wish  it,  but  would 
be  obliged  to  go  with  the  stream." 

At     this     time,     reckoning    up     their     several 
means  of  living,   Charles  Lamb  and  his  father 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER.  51 

had  together  an  income  of  one  hundred  and 
seventy  or  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds ; 
out  of  which,  he  says,  "we  can  spare  fifty  or 
sixty  pounds  at  least  for  Mary  whilst  she  stays 
in  an  asylum.  If  I  and  my  father  and  an  old 
maid-servant  can't  live,  and  live  comfortabl}', 
on  one  hundred  and  thirty  or  one  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  a  year,  we  ought  to  burn 
by  slow  fires.  I  almost  would,  so  that  Mary 
might  not  go  into  a  hospital."  She  was 
then  recovering  her  health ;  had  become  se- 
rene and  cheerful  ;  and  Charles  was  passion- 
ately desirous  that,  after  a  short  residence  in 
the  lunatic  establishment  wherein  she  then 
was,  she  should  return  home :  "  But  the  sur- 
viving members  of  her  family  "  (these  are  Sir 
Thomas  Talfourd's  words),  "especially  John, 
who  enjoyed  a  fair  income  from  the  South 
Sea  House,  opposed  her  discharge."  Charles, 
however,  ultimately  succeeded  in  his  pious 
desire,  upon  entering  into  a  solemn  under- 
taking  to    take    care    of    his    sister   thereafter. 


52  UNCOMFORTAnLH  IIUMK. 

He  provided  a  lodging  for  her  at  Hackney, 
and  spent  all  his  Sundays  and  holidays  with 
her.  I  never  heard  of  John  Lamb  having 
contributed  anything,  in  money  or  otherwise, 
towards  the  support  of  his  deranged  sister, 
or  to  assist  his  young  struggling  brother. 

Soon  after  this  time  Charles  took  his  sister 
Mary  to  live  with  himself  entirely.  Whenever 
the  approach  of  one  of  her  fits  of  insanity  was 
announced  by  some  irritability  or  change  of 
manner,  he  would  take  her,  under  his  arm,  to 
Hoxton  Asylum.  It  was  very  aHlicliiig  t(j  en- 
counter the  young  brother  and  liis  sister  walk- 
ing together  (weeping  together)  on  this  painful 
errand  ;  Marv  herself,  altliough  sad,  very  con- 
scious of  the  necessity  iox  tempcjrary  separation 
from  her  only  friend.  They  used  to  carry  a 
strait  jacket  with  them. 

\\\  the  latter  d;ivs  of  his  father's  life,  Charles 
must  have  had  an  uncomlortable  home.  "I 
go  home  at  night  overwearied,  (juite  faint,  and 
tiien   to   caril.>>  with   my   father,   who  will    not    let 


UNCOMFORTABLE  HOME.  53 

me  enjoy  a  meal  in  peace.  After  repeated 
games  at  cribbage  "  (he  is  writing  to  Coleridge) , 
"  I  have  got  my  father's  leave  to  write ;  with 
difficulty  got  it :  for  when  I  expostulated  about 
playing  any  more,  he  replied,  '  If  you  won't 
play  with  me,  you  might  as  well  not  come 
home  at  all.'  The  argument  was  unanswer- 
able, and  I  set  to  afresh." 

Soon  after  this,  the  father,  who  at  last  had 
become  entirely  imbecile,  died ;  and  the  pension 
whicli  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Salt,  the  old 
bencher,  ceased.  The  aunt,  who  had  been 
taken  for  a  short  time  to  the  house  of  a  rich 
relation,  but  had  been  sent  back,  also  died  in 
the  following  month.  "My  poor  old  aunt" 
(Ghailes  writes),  "who  was  the  kindest  crea- 
ture to  me  when  I  was  at  school,  and  used  to 
bring  me  good  things ;  when  I,  schoolboy-like, 
used  to  be  ashamed  to  see  her  come,  and  open  her 
apron,  and  bring  out  her  basin  with  some  nice 
thing  which  she  had  saved  for  me  ;  the  good 
old  creature  is  now  lying  on  her  death-bed. 
c 


54  LIMITED  FiESOUliCES. 

She  says,  poor  thing,  she  is  ghid  she  has  come 
home  to  die  with  me.  I  was  always  her  favor- 
ite." Thus  Charles  was  left  to  his  own  poor 
resources  (scarcely,  if  at  all,  exceciling  one 
hundred  pounds  a  year)  ;  and  these  remained 
very  small  for  some  considerable  time.  His 
writings  were  not  calculated  to  attract  imme- 
diate popularity,  anil  the  increase  of  his  salary 
at  the  India  House  was  slow.  Even  in  1S09 
(November),  almost  fifteen  years  later,  the  ad- 
dition of  twenty  pounds  a  year,  which  comes 
to  him  on  the  resignation  of  a  clerk  in  the 
India  House,  is  verv  important,  and  is  the  sub- 
ject of  a  joyful  remark  by  his  sister  Mary. 

The  impression  made,  in  the  llrst  instance, 
on  Charles  Lamb,  by  the  terrible  death  of  his 
mother,  cannot  be  explained  in  any  condensed 
manner.  His  mind,  short  of  insanity,  seems  to 
have  been  utterly  upset.  He  had  been  fond 
of  poetry  to  excess;  almost  all  liis  leisure  hours 
seemed  to  have  been  devotetl  to  the  books  of 
poets  and   religious  writers,   io  the  composition 


DESPONDENCY.  55 

of  poetry,  and  to  criticising  various  writers  in 
verse.  But  afterwards,  in  his  distress,  he  re- 
quests Coleridge  to  "  mention  nothing  of  poetry. 
I  have  destroyed  every  vestige  of  past  vanities 
of  that  kind.  Never  send  me  a  book,  I  charge 
you.  I  am  wedded"  (he  adds)  "  to  the  fortunes 
of  my  sister  ancl  my  poor  old  father."  At  another 
time  he  writes,  "  On  the  dreadful  day  I  preserved 
a  tranquillity,  not  of  despair."  Some  persons 
coming  into  the  "  house  of  misery,"  and  per- 
suading him  to  take  some  food,  he  says,  "  In  an 
agony  of  emotion,  I  found  my  way  mechanically 
into  the  adjoining  room,  and  fell  on  my  knees 
by  the  side  of  her  coffin,  asking  forgiveness  of 
Heaven,  and  sometimes  of  her,  for  forgetting 
her  so  soon." 

A  few  days  later,  he  says  to  his  friend,  "  You 
are  the  only  correspondent,  and,  I  might  add, 
the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world.  I  go  no- 
where and  see  no  acquaintance."  At  this  time 
he  gave  away  all  Coleridge's  letters,  burned 
all  his  own  poetry,   all  the  numerous  poetical 


56  ALICE    W. 

extracts  lie  had  made,  and  tlic  little  journal 
of  "  My  foolish  passion,  which  I  had  a  long 
time  kept."  Subsequently,  when  he  becomes 
better,  he  writes  again  to  his  friend,  "  Corre- 
spondence with  you  has  roused  me  a  little  from 
my  lethargy,  and  made  mc  conscious  of  my 
existence." 

Charles  was  now  entirely  alone  with  his  sis- 
ter. She  was  the  only  object  between  him  and 
God,  and  out  of  this  misery  and  desolation  sprang 
that  wonderful  love  between  brother  and  sister, 
which  has  no  parallel  in  history.  Neither  would 
allow  any  stranger  to  partake  of  the  close  aflec- 
tion  that  seemed  to  be  solely  the  otlicr's  right. 
Doubts  have  existed  whether  Cl)arlcs  Lamb 
ever  gave  up  fur  the  sake  of  Mary  the  one  real 
attachment  of  his  youth.  It  has  been  considered 
somewhat  probable  that  Alice  W.  was  an  im- 
aginary being — some  Celia,  or  Campaspe,  or 
Lindamira  ;  that  she  was  in  ciVect  one  of  those 
visions  which  float  over  us  when  we  escape 
from  childhood.     But  it  may  have  been  a  real 


ALICE   W.  S1 

love,  driven  deeper  into  the  heart,  and  torn  out 
for  another  love,  more  holy  and  as  pure :  for 
he  was  capable  of  a  grand  sacrifice.  No  one 
will,  perhaps,  ever  ascertain  the  truth  precisely. 
It  must  remain  undiscovered  —  magnified  by 
the  mist  of  uncertainty  —  like  those  Hesperian 
Gardens  which  inspired  the  verses  of  poets,  but 
are  still  surrounded  by  fable. 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  persuaded  that  the 
attachment  was  real.  He  says  that  his  sister 
would  often  "  lend  an  ear  to  his  desponding, 
love-sick  lay."  After  he  himself  had  been  in 
a  lunatic  asylum,  he  writes  to  Coleridge,  that 
his  "  head  ran  upon  him,  in  his  madness,  as 
much  almost  as  on  another  person,  zuho  was 
the  more  immediate  cause  of  my  frenzy." 
Later  in  the  year  he  burned  the  "  little  journal 
of  his  foolish  passion  ; "  and,  when  writing  to 
his  friend  on  the  subject  of  his  love  sonnets, 
he  says,  "It  is  a  passion  of  which  I  retain 
nothing."  It  is  clear,  I  think,  that  it  was  love 
for  a  real  person,  however  transient  it  may  have 


sS  nnnTiiF.R  AM)  s/sr/:iL 

been.  But  the  fact,  whether  true  or  false,  is 
inexpressibly  unimportant.  It  could  not  add 
to  his  stature:  it  could  not  diminish  it.  His 
whole  life  is  acted ;  and  in  it  arc  numerous 
other  thini^^s  which  substantially  raise  and 
honor  him.  The  ashes  (if  ashes  th^rc  were) 
arc  cold.  His  struggles  and  pains,  and  hopes 
and  visions,  arc  over.  All  lie,  ditlliscd,  inter- 
mingled in  that  vast  Space  which  has  No 
Name  ;  like  the  winds  and  light  of  yesterday, 
which  came  and  gave  pleasure  for  a  moment, 
and  now  have  changed  and  left  us,  f(^revcr. 

In  contrast  with  this  apocryphal  attachment 
stands  out  his  deep  and  unalterable  love  for 
his  sister  Mary.  "  God  love  her,"  he  says ; 
"  may  we  two  never  love  each  other  less." 
Tiiey  never  did.  Their  alllction  continued 
throughout  life,  without  interruijtion  ;  without 
a  cloud,  except  such  as  rose  from  the  Huctua- 
tions  of  her  health.  It  is  said  that  a  woman 
rises  or  falls  with  the  arm  on  which  she  leans. 
In   this   case,   Mary    Lamb   at   all   times    had    a 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER.  59 

safe  support ;  an  arm  that  never  shook  nor 
wavered,  but  kept  its  elevation,  faithful  and 
firm   throughout  life. 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  fully  the  great  love 
of  Charles  for  his  sister,  except  in  his  own 
words.  Whenever  her  name  occurs  in  the 
correspondence,  the  tone  is  always  the  same ; 
always  tender ;  without  abatement,  without 
change.  "I  am  a  fool"  (he  writes)  "bereft 
of  her  cooperation.  I  am  used  to  look  up  to 
her  in  the  least  and  biggest  perplexities.  To 
say  all  that  I  find  her,  would  be  more  than  I 
think  anybody  could  possibly  understand.  She 
is  older,  wiser,  and  better  than  I  am  ;  and  all 
my  wretched  imperfections  I  cover  to  myself, 
by  resolutely  thinking  on  her  goodness.  She 
would  share  life  and  death  with  mc."  This 
(to  anticipate)  was  written  in  1805,  when  she 
was  suffering  from  one  of  her  attacks  of  illness. 
After  she  became  better,  he  became  better  also, 
and  opened  his  heart  to  the  pleasures  and  ob- 
jects around  him.     It  was  open  at  all  times  to 


6o  BROTUER  AND   SISTER. 

want,  and  sickness,  and  wretchedness,  and  gen- 
erally to  the  friendly  voices  and  homely  reali- 
ties that  rose  up  and  surrounded  him  in  his 
daily  walk  through  life. 

During  all  his  years  he  was  encircled  by 
groups  of  loving  friends.  There  were  no  others 
habitually  round  him.  It  is  reported  of  some 
person  that  he  had  not  merit  enough  to  create 
a  foe.  In  Lamb's  case,  I  suppose,  he  did  not 
possess  that  peculiar  merit ;  for  he  lived  and 
died  without  an  enemy. 


(  6i  ) 


CHAPTER    III. 

yem  White.  —  Coleridge.  —  Lamb's  Inspira- 
tion. —  Early  Letters.  —  Poem  published. — 
Charles  Lloyd.  —  Liking  for  Burns.,  &c. — 
Quakerism.  —  Robert  Southey.  —  Southey 
and  Coleridge.  —  Antijacobin.  —  Rosamond 
Gray.  —  George  Dyer.  —  Afannijig. — Mary's 
Illnesses.  —  Migrations.  —  Hester  Savory. 

AFTER  the  pain  arising  from  the  deaths 
of  his  parents  had  somewhat  subsided, 
and  his  sorrow,  exhausting  itself  in  the  usual 
manner,  had  given  way  to  calm,  the  story 
of  Lamb  becomes  mainly  an  account  of  his 
mtercourse  with  society.  He  was  surrounded, 
during  his  somewhat  monotonous  career,  by 
affectionate  and  admiring  friends,  who  helped 
to  bring  out  his  rare  qualities,  who  stimu- 
lated his  genius,  and  who  are  in  fact  inter- 
woven  with    his   own   history. 


62  JEM  WHITE. 

One  of  the  cailicst  of  these  was  his  school- 
fellow James  (familiarly  Jem)  White.  This 
youth,  who  at  the  l)eginiiin<^  of  this  period 
was  his  most  frequent  companion,  had  j^rcat 
cleverness  and  al)undant  animal  spirits,  under 
tlic  iniluence  of  which  he  had  produced  a 
small  volume,  entitled  "  Original  Letters  of 
Sir  John  Falstaff  and  his  Friends."  These 
letters  were  ingenious  imitations  of  the  style 
and  tone  of  thought  of  the  celebrated  Shake- 
spearian knight  and  his  familiars.  Beyond 
this  merit  they  are,  perhaps,  not  sufficiently 
full  of  that  enduring  matter  wliich  is  intended 
for  posterity.  Nevertheless  they  contain  some 
good  and  a  few  excellent  things.  The  letter 
of  Davy  (Justice  Shallow's  servant)  giving  an 
account  to  his  master  of  the  death  of  poor 
Aljrani  Slender  is  very  tcnicliing.  Slender  dies 
from  mere  love  of  sweet  Ann  Page  ;  "  Mxister 
Abram  is  dead  ;  gone,  your  worship.  A'  sang 
his  soul  and  body  cjuite  away.  A'  turned  like 
the  latter  end  of  a  lover's  lute." 


JEM  WHITE.  63 

Wliite's  book  was  published  in  1796;  and 
one  of  the  early  copies  was  sold  at  the  Rox- 
burgh sale  for  five  guineas.  Is  it  possible 
that  the  imitations  could  have  been  mistaken 
for  originals?  Aftei*wards,  the  little  book 
could  be  j^ickcd  up  for  eighteenpence ;  even 
for  sixpence.  It  was  always  a  great  fa- 
vorite with  Lamb.  He  reviewed  it,  after 
White's  death,  in  the  JSxammer.  Lamb's 
friendship  and  sympathy  in  taste  with  White 
induced  him  to  attach  greater  value  to  this 
book  than  it  was,  perhaps,  strictly  entitled  to ; 
he  even  passes  some  commendation  on  the 
frontispiece,  which  is  undoubtedly  a  very  poor 
specimen  of  art.  It  is  remarkable  how  Lamb, 
who  was  able  to  enter  so  completely  into 
Hogarth's  sterling  humor,  could  ever  have 
placed   any   value   upon   this    counterfeit   coin. 

But  Lamb  had  a  great  regard  for  Jem 
White.  They  had  been  boys  together,  school- 
fellows in  Christ's  Hospital ;  and  these  very 
early  friendships    seldom    undergo    any    severe 


64  JEM  WHITE. 

critical  tests.  At  all  events,  Lamb  thought 
highly  of  White's  book,  ^vhich  he  used  often 
to  purchase  and  give  away  to  his  friends,  in 
justification  of  his  own  taste  and  to  extend 
the  fame  of  the  author.  The  copy  ^vhicll  he 
gave  me  I  have  still.  White,  it  seems,  after 
leaving  Christ's  Hospital  as  a  scholar,  took 
some  office  there ;  but  eventually  left  it,  and 
became  an  agent  for  newsjiapers. 

In  one  of  the  Elia  essays,  "The  Praise 
of  Chimney-sweepers,"  Lamb  has  set  forth 
some  of  the  merits  of  his  old  friend.  Un- 
doubtedly Jem  White  must  have  been  a 
thoroughly  kind-liearted  man,  since  he  could 
give  a  dinner  every  year,  on  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's day,  to  the  little  chimney-sweepers  of 
London  ;  waiting  on  them,  and  cheering  them 
up  with  his  jokes  and  lively  talk ;  creating  at 
least  one  happy  day  amuially  in  each  of  their 
])oor  lives.  At  the  date  o{  the  essay  (May, 
1822)  he  had  died.  In  Lamb's  words,  '"James 
White    is    extiiRi  ;     and    with    him    the  suppers 


COLERIDGE.  65 

have  long  ceased.  He  carried  away  with 
him  half  the  fun  of  the  world  when  he  died 
—  of  my  world,  at  least.  His  old  clients 
look  for  him  among  the  pens ;  and,  missing 
him,  reproach  the  altered  feast  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew, and  the  glory  of  Smithfield  de- 
parted  foi"ever." 

The  great  friend  and  Mentor,  however,  of 
Charles  Lamb's  youth,  was  (as  has  frequently 
been  asserted)  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  who 
was  a  philosopher,  and  who  was  considered, 
almost  universally,  to  be  the  greater  genius 
of  the  two.  It  may  be  so ;  and  there  is 
little  doubt  that  in  mere  capacity,  in  the 
power  of  accumulating  and  disbursing  ideas, 
and  in  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  knowl- 
edge, he  exceeded  Lamb,  and  also  most  of 
his  other  contemporaries ;  but  the  mind  of 
Lamb  was  quite"  as  original,  and  more  com- 
pact. The  two  friends  were  very  dissimilar, 
the  one  wandering  amongst  lofty,  ill-defined 
objects,  whilst  the  other  "  clung  to  the  reali- 
5 


66  COLERIDGE. 

tics  of  life."  It  is  fortunately  not  ncccssaiy 
to  enter  into  any  comparative  estimate  of  these 
two  remarkable  persons.  Each  liad  his  posi- 
tive qualities  and  peculiarities,  by  whieli  he 
was  distinguishable  from  other  men ;  and  l)y 
these  he  may  therefore  be  separately  and  more 
safely  judged. 

In  his  mature  age  (when  I  knew  him) 
Coleridge  had  a  full,  round  face,  a  fine,  broad 
forehead,  rather  thick  lips,  and  strange,  dreamy 
eyes,  whicli  were  often  lighted  up  by  eager- 
ness, but  wanted  concentration,  and  were 
adapted  apparently  for  musing  or  speculation, 
rather  than  for  precise  or  rapid  judgment. 
Yet  he  was  very  shrewd,  as  well  as  eloquent ; 
was  (slightly)  addicted  to  jesting ;  and  would 
talk  "at  sight"  upon  any  subject  willi  ex- 
treme fluency  and  mucli  knowledge.  "  His 
white  hair,"  in  Lamb's  words,  "shrouded  a 
capacious  brain." 

Coleridge  hail  browsed  and  expatiated  over 
all  the  rich    regions  of  literature,    at  home  and 


COLERIDGE.  67 

abroad.  In  youth  his  studies  had,  in  the 
first  instance,  been  mainly  in  theology,  he 
having  selected  the  "  Church "  for  his  profes- 
sion. Although  he  was  educated  in  the  creed 
and  rites  of  the  Church  of  England,  he  be- 
came for  a  time  a  Unitarian  preacher,  and 
scattered  his  eloquent  words  over  many  human 
audiences.  He  was  fond  of  questions  of  logic, 
and  of  explaining  his  systems  and  opinions  by 
means  of  diagrams ;  but  his  projects  were  sel- 
dom consummated ;  and  his  talk  (sometimes) 
and  his  prose  writing  (often)  were  tedious  and 
difluse.  His  "  Christabel,"  from  which  he 
derived  inuch  of  his  fame,  remained,  after  a 
lapse  of  more  than  thirty  years,  incomplete  at 
his  death.  He  gained  much  reputation  from 
the  "Ancient  Mariner"  (which  is  perhaps  his 
best  poem)  ;  but  his  translation  of  Schiller's 
"  Wallenstein "  is  the  only  achievement  that 
shows  him  capable  of  a  great  prolonged 
eflbrt.  Lamb  used  to  boast  that  he  supplied 
one  line  to    his   friend   in  the   fourth   scene  of 


6S  COLERIDGE. 

that  traced}-,  where  the  description  of  the 
Pagan  deities  occurs.  In  speaking  of  Satan, 
he  is  figured  as  "  an  old  man  niehmcholy." 
"  That  was  7?iy  Hne,"  Lanil)  would  say,  cxult- 
ingly.  I  forget  how  it  was  orignally  written, 
except  that  it  had  not  the  extra  (or  eleventh) 
syllable,  which  it  now  possesses. 

There  is  some  beautiful  writing  in  this  fourth 
scene,  which  may  be  read  after  l^lr.  Words- 
worth's equally  beautiful  reference  to  the 
Olympian  gods  and  goddesses,  in  the  fourth 
book  of  the  "  Excursion,"  entitled  "  Despon- 
dency Corrected."  The  last  explains  more 
completely  than  the  otlier  the  attributes  of  the 
deities  specially  named. 

The  most  elaborate  (pcrhaj^s  impartial) 
sketches  of  Coleridge  —  his  great  talents,  com- 
l)inc(l  with  his  great  weaknesses  —  may  be 
found  in  Ilazlitt's  Essays,  "The  .Spirit  of  the 
Age"  and  '"My  First  Acciuaintancc  with  Po- 
ets ;  "  and  in  the  eii^dith  chapter  of  Mr.  Car- 
lylc's  "Life  of  John  Sterling." 


COLE  RID  OE.  6c, 

In  Lamb's  letters  it  is  easy  to  perceive 
tliat  the  writer  soon  became  aware  of  tlie 
foibles  of  his  friend.  "  Cultivate  simplicity, 
Coleridge,"  is  his  admonition  as  early  as  1796. 
In  another  place  his  remark  is,  "You  have 
been  straining  your  faculties  to  bring  together 
things  infinitely  distant  and  unlike."  Again, 
"  I  grieve  from  my  very  soul  to  observe  you 
in  your  plans  of  life  veering  about  from  this 
hope  to  the  other,  and  settling  nowhere." 
Robert  Southey,  whose  prose  style  was  the 
perfection  of  neatness,  and  who  was  intimate 
with  Coleridge  throughout  his  life,  laments  that 
it  is  "  extraordinary  that  he  should  write  in 
so  rambling  and  inconclusive  a  manner ;  "  his 
mind,  which  was  undoubtedly  very  pliable 
and  subtle,  "  turning  and  winding,  till  you 
get  weary  of  following  his  mazy  movements." 

Charles  Lamb,  however,  always  sincerely 
admired  and  loved  his  old  schoolfellow,  and 
grieved  deeply  when  he  died.  The  recollec- 
tion   of    this    event,    which     happened    many 


70  COLERIDUK. 

years  afterwards  (in  1831),  never  left  Lamb 
until  his  own  death  :  he  used  perpetually  to 
cxelaim,  "  Coleridj^e  is  dead,  Coleridge  is 
dead,"  in  a  low,  musing,  meditative  voice. 
These  exclamations  (addressed  to  no  one) 
were,  as  Lamb  was  a  most  unafVcctcd  man, 
assuredly  involuntary,  and  showed  that  he 
could  not  get  rid  of  the    melancholy  truth. 

At  this  distance  of  time,  many  persons 
(judging  by  what  he  has  left  behind  him) 
wonder  at  the  extent  of  admiration  which 
possessed  some  of  Coleridge's  contemporaries : 
Charles  Lamb  accorded  to  his  genius  some- 
thing scarcely  short  of  absolute  worship ; 
Robert  Southcy  considered  his  capacity  as  ex- 
ceeding that  of  almost  all  other  writers ;  and 
Leigh  Hunt,  speaking  of  Coleridge's  personal 
appearance,  says,  "-lie  had  a  mighty  intellect 
put  upon  a  sensual  body."  Persons  wlio  were 
intimate  with  bol'.i  have  suggested  that  even 
Wordsworth  was  indebted  to  him  for  some  of 
his  philosophy.     As  late  as  iSiS,  Lamb,  when 


COLERIDGE.  .  71 

dedicating  his  works  to  him,  says  that  Cole- 
ridge "  first  kindled  in  him,  if  not  the  power, 
the  love,  of  poetry,  and  beauty,  and  kindness." 
He  must  be  judged,  however,  by  what  he  has 
actually  done. 

I  am  not  here  as  the  valuer  of  Coleridge's 
merits.  I  have  no  pretensions  and  no  desire 
to  assume  so  delicate  an  office.  His  dreams 
and  intentions  were  undoubtedly  good,  and, 
had  he  been  able  to  carry  them  out  for  the 
benefit  of  the  world,  would  have  entitled  him- 
self to  the  name  of  a  great  poet,  a  great  genius. 
His  readiness  to  discuss  all  subjects,  and  his 
ability  to  talk  on  most  of  them  with  ease, 
were  marvellous.  But  he  was  always  infirm 
of  purpose,  and  never  did  justice  to  his  own 
capacity. 

Amongst  other  men  of  talent  who  have 
sung  Coleridge's  praises  should  be  named  Haz- 
litt,  who  knew  him  in  1798,  and  has  enshrined 
him  in  the  first  of  his  charming  papers,  en- 
titled   "Winterslow   Essays."      Hazlitt    admits 


72  V0Li:i:iiK!K. 

liis  feebleness  of  purpose,  but  speaks  of  his 
jj^cnius,  shiniiicj  upon  his  own  (then)  dumb, 
inarticulate  nature,  as  the  sun  "  upon  tlie  pud- 
dles of  the  road."  Coleridge  at  that  time 
was  a  Unitarian  minister,  and  had  come  to 
preach,  instead  of  the  minister  for  the  time 
being,  at  Shrewsbury,  Ilazlitt  rose  before 
daylight  (it  was  in  January),  and  walked  from 
Wem  to  Shrewsbury,  a  distance  of  ten  miles, 
to  hear  the  "celebrated"  man,  who  combined 
the  inspirations  of  poet  and  preacher  in  one 
person,  enlighten  a  Shropshire  congregation. 
"  Never,  the  longest  day  I  have  to  live  "  (says 
he),  "shall  I  have  such  another  walk  as  this 
cold,  raw,  comfortless  one,  in  tlie  winter  of 
179S.  When  I  got  tlierc  [to  the  Cliapel],  the 
organ  was  playing  the  one  hundredth  Psalm  ; 
and  when  it  was  done,  Mr.  Coleridge  rose  and 
gave  out  his  text  —  'And  he  went  up  into 
the  mountain  to  pray.  Himself  Aloxk.' 
The  preacher  then  launched  into  his  subject, 
like    an    eagle    dallying   with    the    wind,"    &c. 


LAMB'S  INSPIRATION.  73 

Coleridge  was  at  that  time  only  five  and  twen- 
ty years  of  age ;  yet  he  seems  even  then  to 
have  been  able  to  decide  on  many  writers  in 
logic  and  rhetoric,  philosophy  and  poetry.  Of 
course  he  was  familiar  with  the  works  of  his 
friend  Wordsworth,  of  whom  he  cleverly  ob- 
served, in  reply  to  the  depreciating  opinion  of 
Mackintosh,  "He  strides  on  so  far  before  you, 
that  he  dwindles  in  the  distance."  * 

It  would  be  very  interesting,  were  it  practi- 
cable, to  trace  with  certainty  the  sources  that 
supplied  Charles  Lamb's  inspiration.  But  this 
must  always  be  impossible.  For  inspiration, 
in  all  cases,  proceeds  from  many  sources,  al- 
though there  may  be  one  influence  predomi- 
nating. It  is  clear  that  a  great  Tragedy 
mainly    determined    his    conduct    through    life, 

*  The  most  convincing  evidence  of  Coleridge's  powers 
is  to  be  found  in  his  Table  Talk.  It  appears  from  it 
that  he  was  ready  to  discuss  (almost)  any  subject,  and 
that  he  was  capable  of  talking  ably  upon  most,  and  clev- 
erly upon  all. 


74  LAMB'S  INSPIRATION. 

and  operated,  tlicrcfore,  materially  on  his 
thoughts  as  well  as  actions.  The  terrible 
death  of  his  mother  concentrated  and  strength- 
ened his  mind,  and  prevented  its  dissipation 
into  trifling  and  ignoble  thoughts.  The  regu- 
larity of  the  India  House  lalmr  upheld  him. 
The  extent  and  character  of  his  acquaintance 
also  helped  to  determine  the  quality  of  the 
things  which  he  produced.  Had  he  seen  less, 
his  mind  might  have  become  warped  and  rigid, 
as  from  want  of  space.  Had  he  seen  too 
much,  his  thoughts  might  have  been  split  and 
cxhaustctl  upon  too  many  points,  and  would 
thus  have  been  so  perplexed  and  harassed, 
that  the  value  of  his  productions,  now  known 
and  current  through  all  classes,  might  scarcely 
have  exceeded  a  negative  quantity. 

Then,  in  his  companions  he  must  l)e  ac- 
counted fortunate.  Coleridge  helped  to  unloose 
his  mind  from  too  precise  notions:  Southey 
gave  it  consistency  and  cf)rrectness :  Manning 
expanded    hi.s   virion:     Hazlitt    gave    him    dar- 


EAELY  LETTERS.  75 

ing :  perhaps  even  poor  George  Dyer,  like 
some  unrecognized  virtue,  may  have  kept 
ahve  and  nourished  the  pity  and  tenderness 
which  were  originally  sown  within  him.  We 
must  leave  the  difficulty,  as  we  must  leave  the 
great  problems  of  Nature,  unexplained,  and 
be  content  with  what  is  self-evident  before  us. 
We  know,  at  all  events,  that  he  had  an  open 
heart,  and  that  the  heart  is  a  fountain  which 
never  fails. 

The  earliest  productions  of  Lamb  which 
have  come  down  to  us,  namely,  verses,  and 
criticism,  and  letters,  are  all  in  a  grave  and 
thoughtful  tone.  The  letters,  at  first,  ai"e  on 
melancholy  subjects,  but  afterwards  stray  into 
criticism  or  into  details  of  his  readings,  or  an 
account  of  his  predilections  for  books  and  au- 
thors. At  one  or  two  and  twenty,  he  had 
read  and  formed  opinions  on  Shakespeare,  on 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  on  Massinger,  Milton, 
Cowley,  Isaac  Walton,  Burns,  Collins,  and 
others ;     some    of    these,    be   it    observed,    lying 


76         EARLY  LETTERS  AND  POEMS. 

much  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  a  young 
man's  reading.  lie  was  also  accjuainted  with 
the  writings  of  Priestley  and  Wesley,  and 
Jonathan  Edwards ;  for  the  first  of  whom  he 
entertained   the  deepest  respect. 

Lamb's  verses  were  always  good,  steady,  and 
firm,  and  void  of  those  magniloquent  com- 
monplaces which  so  clearly  betray  the  imma- 
ture writer.  They  were  at  no  time  misty  nor 
inconsecjuent,  but  contained  proof  that  he  had 
reasoned  out  his  idea.  From  the  age  of 
twenty-one  to  the  age  of  fifty-nine,  when  he 
died,  he  hated  fine  words  and  ilt)urishes  of 
rhetoric.  His  imagination  (not  very  lofty,  per- 
haps) is  to  be  discovered  less  in  his  verse 
than  in  his  prose  humor,  than  in  his  letters 
and  essays.  In  these  it  was  never  trivial,  but 
was  always  knit  together  by  good  sense,  or 
softened  by  tenderness.  Keal  humor  seldom 
makes  its  api^earance  in  the  Ihst  literary  ven- 
tures of  young  writers.  Accordingly,  symp- 
toms   of    liuiMoi     (wliicli,   ne\  ei  tlieiess,   were  not 


EARLY  LETTERS  AND  POEMS.         'J'J 

long  delayed)  are  not  to  be  discovered  in 
Charles  Lamb's  first  letters  or  poems ;  the 
latter,  when  prepared  for  publication  in  1796, 
being  especially  grave.  They  are  entitled 
"  Poems  by  Charles  Lamb  of  the  India 
House,"  and  are  inscribed  to  "  Mary  Anne 
Lamb,  the   author's  best  friend  and  sister." 

After  some  pi"ocrastination,  the  book  contain- 
ing them  was  published  in  1797,  conjointly 
with  other  verses  by  Coleridge  and  Charles 
Lloyd.  "We  came  into  our  first  battle" 
(Charles  says  in  his  dedication  to  Coleridge, 
in  1818)  "under  cover  of  the  greater  Ajax." 
In  this  volume  Lloyd's  verses  took  precedence 
of  Lamb's,  at  Coleridge's  suggestion.  This 
suggestion,  the  reason  of  which  is  not  very 
obvious,  was  very  readily  acceded  to.  Lamb 
having  a  sincere  regard  for  Lloyd,  who  (with 
a  fine  reasoning  mind)  was  subject  to  that 
sad  mental  disease  which  was  common  to 
both  their  families.  Lamb  has  addressed  some 
verses   to    Lloyd    at    this    date,    which    indicate 


7S  VISIT  TO   COLERIDOE. 

tlic  great    respect    he    felt    towards    his  friend's 

intellect :  — 

"  I'll  tliink  less  meanly  of  myself, 
That  Lloyd  will  sometimes  think  of  mc." 

This  joint  volume  was  piihlishcd  without 
much  success.  In  the  same  year  Lamb  and 
his  sister  paid  a  visit  to  Coleridge,  then  living 
at  Stowcy,  in  Somersetshire ;  after  which 
Coleridge,  for  what  purpose  docs  not  very 
clearly  appear,  migrated  to  Germany.  This 
happened  in  the  year   i79S- 

Charles  Lloyd,  one  of  tlie  triumvirate  of 
1797,  was  the  son  of  a  banker  at  l^irmingham. 
lie  was  educated  as  a  Qiiaker,  hut  seceded 
from  that  body,  and  afterwards  became  "  per- 
plexed in  mind,"  and  very  desponding.  lie 
often  took  up  his  residence  in  London,  but 
did  not  mingle  much  with  society.  An  ex- 
treme mclanclioly  darkened  his  latter  days  ; 
and,  as  I  bLlic\c,  he  died  itisane.  He  pub- 
lisJK'd  varif)us  ])ocn)s,  and  translated,  hom  the 
Italian    into    English   blank   verse,   the    tragedies 


CHARLES  LLOYD.  79 

of  Alfieri.  His  poems  are  distinguished  radier 
by  a  remarkable  power  of  intellectual  analysis 
than  by  the  delicacy  or  fervor  of  the  verse. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Charles  Lloyd  was  in 
company  with  Hazlitt.  We  heard  that  he  had 
taken  lodgings  at  a  working  brazier's  shop  in 
Fetter  Lane,  and  we  visited  him  there,  and 
found  him  in  bed,  much  depressed,  but  very 
willing  to  discuss  certain  problems  with  Haz- 
litt, who  carried  on  the  greater  part  of  the 
conversation.  We  understood  that  he  had 
selected  these  noisy  apartments  in  order  that 
they  might  distract  his  mind  from  the  fears 
and  melancholy  thoughts  which  at  that  time 
distressed  him. 

It  was  soon  after  the  publication  of  the  joint 
volume  that  Charles  chronicles  the  different 
tastes  of  himself  and  his  friend.  "  Burns,"  he 
says,  "  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry,  as  Bowles  of 
yours,"  Posterity  has  tmiversally  joined  in  the 
preference  of  Lamb.  Burns,  indeed,  was  al- 
ways one  of  his  greatest  favorites.     He  admired 


So  LIKINO  FOR  BURNS. 

and  sometimes  (jiiotcd  a  line  or  two  from  the 
last  stanza  of  the  "  Lament  for  James,  Earl  of 
Glencairn,"  "  The  brideji^room  may  for;^et  his 
l)ride,"  <Jv:c.  ;  and  I  have  more  than  once  heard 
him  repeat,  in  a  fond,  tender  voice,  when  the 
subject  of  poets  or  poetry  came  imder  discus- 
sion, the  following  beautiful  lines  from  the  Epis- 
tle to  Simpson  of  Ochiltree  : 

"The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel  he  learn'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trottinp;  burn's  meander 
An'  no  think 't  lang." 

These  he  would  press  upon  the  attention  of 
any  one  present  (chanting  tliem  aloud),  and 
would  bring  down  the  volume  of  Burns,  and 
open  it,  in  order  that  the  page  might  be  im- 
pressed on  the  hcarci's  memory.  .Sometimes  — 
in  a  way  scarcely  discernible  —  lie  would  kiss 
the  volume  ;  as  he  would  also  a  book  by  Chap- 
man or  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  or  any  other  which 
he  particularly  valued.  I  have  seen  him  read 
out  a  passage  from  the  Holy  Dying  and  the  Urn 


QUAKERISM.  8i 

Burial,  and  express  in  the  same  way  his  devo- 
tion and  gratitude. 

Lamb  had  been  brought  up  a  Unitarian  ;  but 
he  appears  to  have  been  occasionally  fluctuating 
in  a  matter  as  to  which  boys  are  not  apt  to  en- 
tertain very  rigid  opinions.  At  one  time  he 
longed  to  be  with  superior  thinkers.  "  I  am 
always  longing  to  be  with  men  more  excellent 
than  myself,"  are  his  words.  At  another  time 
he  writes,  "  I  have  had  thoughts  of  turning 
Quaker  lately."  A  visit,  however,  to  one  of 
the  Qiiaker  meetings  in  1797?  decides  him 
against  such  conversion :  "  This  cured  me  of 
Qiiakerism.  I  love  it  in  the  books  of  Penn  and 
Woodman ;  but  I  detest  the  vanity  of  man, 
thinking  he  speaks  by  the  Spirit."  A  similar 
story  is  told  of  Coleridge.  Mr.  Justice  Cole- 
ridge's statement  is,  "  He  told  us  a  humorous 
story  of  his  enthusiastic  fondness  for  Qiiakers 
when  at  Cambridge,  and  his  attending  one  of 
their  meetings,  which  had  entirely  cured  him." 

In  1797  Charles  Lamb  (who  had  been  intro- 
6 


82  I7.S77'  7v>  Horriii:)'. 

(luccd  to  vScnithcy  by  Coleridge  two  years  pre- 
viously) acconipaiiicd  Lloyd  to  a  litllc  villaj^e 
near  Chri.stcluirch,  in  llainpshirc,  where  vSoiitliey 
was  at  that  time  reading.  This  little  holiday 
(of  a  fortnight)  seems  to  have  converted  the 
acquaintanceship  between  vSouthcy  and  Lamb 
ijito  something  like  intimacy.  lie  then  paid 
another  visit  (which  he  had  long  meditated)  to 
Coleridge,  who  was  residing  at  Stowey. 

It  must  have  been  shortly  after  this  first  visit 
(for  Lamb  went  again  to  Stowey,  and  met 
Wordsworth  there  in  iSoi)  that  Coleridge  un- 
dertook the  oi]lce  of  minister  to  a  Unitarian 
congregation  at  Shrewsbury,  and  preached  there, 
as  detailed  by  Hazlitt  in  the  manner  already  set 
forth.  In  179S  he  took  his  departure  for  Ger- 
many, and  this  led  to  a  familiar  correspondence 
l)etween  Laml)  and  Southev.  The  opening  of 
Lamb's  humor  may  probal)ly  be  referred  to 
this  friendship  with  a  congenial  humorist,  and 
one,  like  himself,  taking  a  strong  interest  in 
worldly    matters.      Coleridge,    between    whom 


COLEEIDOE  AND   SO  LITHE  Y.  83 

and  Lamb  there  w.as  not  much  simihirity  of 
feeling,  beyond  their  common  love  for  poetry 
and  religious  writings,  was  absent,  and  Lamb 
was  enticed  by  the  kindred  spirit  of  Southey 
into  the  accessible  regions  of  humor.  These 
two  friends  never  arrived  at  that  close  friend- 
ship which  had  been  forming  between  Coleridge 
and  Lamb  ever  since  their  school-days  at  Christ's 
Hospital.  But  they  interchanged  ideas  on  poet- 
ical and  humorous  topics,  and  did  not  perplex 
themselves  with  anything  speculative  or  tran- 
scendental. 

The  first  letter. to  Southey,  which  has  been 
preserved  (July,  179S),  announces  that  Lamb 
is  ready  to  enter  into  any  jocose  contest.  It 
includes  a  list  of  queries  to  be  defended  by  Cole- 
ridge at  Lcipsic  or  Gottingen  ;  the  first  of  which 
was,  "  Whether  God  loves  a  lying  angel  better 
than  a  true  man?"  Some  of  these  queries,  in 
all  probability,  had  relation  to  Coleridge's  own 
infirmities :  at  all  events,  they  were  sent  over 
to   him  in  reply  to  the  benediction  which   he 


84  COLERIDOE. 

luul  thought  proper  to  l)cqucath  to  Charles  on 
leaving  England.  '••  Poor  Lamb,  if  he  wants 
a/iy  knowledge  he  may  apply  to  /;/r."  I  must 
believe  that  this  message  was  jocose,  otherwise 
it  would  have  been  insolent  in  the  extreme 
degree.  Coleridge's  answers  to  the  queries 
above  adverted  to  arc  not  known ;  I  believe 
that  the  proffered  knowledge  was  not  aflbrded 
so  readily  as  it  was  demanded. 

It  has  been  surmised  tliat  tlierc  was  some 
interruption  of  the  good  feeling  between  Cole- 
ridge and  Lamb  al)Out  this  period  of  tlieir  lives  ; 
but  I  cannot  discern  this  in  the  letters  tliat  oc- 
curred between  the  two  schoolfellows.  The 
message  of  Coleridge,  and  the  questions  in  re- 
ply, occur  in  179S  ;  and  in  May,  iSoo,  there  is  a 
letter  from  Laml)  to  Coleridge,  and  subsequently 
two  others,  in  tlic  same  year,  all  couched  in  the 
old  customary,  friendly  tone.  \\\  addition  to 
this,  Charles  Lamb,  many  years  afterwards, 
said  that  there  had  been  an  uninterrupted 
friendship  of  fifty  years  between  tliem.     \\\  one 


COLERIDGE  AND   80UTHEY.  85 

letter  of  Lamb's,  indeed  (17th  March,  1800),  it 
appears  that  his  early  notions  of  Coleridge  be- 
ing a  "  very  good  man "  had  been  traversed 
by  some  doubts ;  but  these  "  foolish  impres- 
sions "  were  short-lived,  and  did  not  apparently 
form  any  check  to  the  continuance  of  their 
life-long  friendship. 

It  is  clear  that  Lamb's  judgment  w^as  at 
this  time  becoming  independent.  In  one  of 
his  letters  to  Coleridge,  when  comparing  his 
friend's  merits  with  those  of  Southey,  he  says, 
"  Southey  has  no  pretensions  to  vie  with  you 
in  the  sublime  of  poetry,  but  he  tells  a  plain 
story  better."  Even  to  Southey  he  is  equally 
candid.  Writing  to  him  on  the  subject  of  a 
volume  of  poems  which  he  had  lately  pub- 
lished, he  remarks,  "  The  Rose  is  the  only  in- 
sipid poem  in  the  volume  ;  it  has  neither  thorns 
nor  sweetness." 

In  1798  or  1799,  Lamb  contributed  to  the 
Annual  Anthology  (which  Mr.  Cottle,  a  book- 
seller of  Bristol,  published),  jointly  with  Cole- 


S6  ANTIJACOBIN  REVIEW. 

ridge  and  Southey.  In  1800  he  was  introduced 
by  Coleridge  to  Godwin.  It  is  clear  that 
Charles's  intimacy  with  Coleridge,  and  Southey, 
and  Lloyd,  was  not  productive  of  unmitigated 
pleasure.  For  the  "  Antijacobin  "  made  its  ap- 
pearance about  this  time,  and  denounced  them 
all  in  a  manner  which  in  the  present  day  would 
itself  be  denounced  as  infamous.  Some  of  these 
gentlemen  (Lamb's  friends),  in  common  with 
many  others,  augured  at  first  favorably  of  the 
actors  in  the  great  French  Revolution,  and  this 
had  excited  much  displeasure  in  the  Tory  ranks.  I 
Accordingly  they  were  represented  as  being 
guilty  of  blasphemy  and  slander,  and  as  being 
adorers  of  a  certain  French  revolutionist,  named 
Lepaux,  of  whom  Lamb,  at  all  events,  was  en- 
tirely ignorant.  They  were,  moreover,  the  sub- 
ject of  a  caricature  by  Gilray,  in  which  Lamb 
and  Lloyd  were  portrayed  as  toad  ami  frog. 
I  cannot  think,  with  Sir  T.  Talfuurd,  that  all 
these  libels  were  excusable,  on  the  ground  of 
the    "sportive    wit"    of    the    oneiiding    parties. 


BOSAMOND   QBAT.  Sy 

Lamb's  writings  had  no  reference  whatever  to 
political  subjects ;  they  were,  on  the  contrary, 
as  the  first  writings  of  a  young  man  generally 
are,  serious,  —  even  religious.  Referring  to 
Coleridge,  it  is  stated  that  he  "  was  dishonored 
at  Cambridge  for  preaching  Deism,  and  that 
he  had  since  left  his  native  country,  and  left 
his  poor  children  fatherless,  and  his  wife  des- 
titute : "  ex  his  disce  his  friends  Lamb  and 
Southey.  A  scurrilous  libel  of  this  stamp 
would  now  be  rejected  by  all  persons  of  good 
feeling  or  good  character.  It  would  be  spurned 
by  a  decent  publication,  or,  if  published,  would 
be  consigned  to  the  justice  of  a  jury. 

The  little  story  of  Rosamond  Gray  was 
wrought  out  of  the  artist's  brain  in  the  year 
179S,  stimulated,  as  Lamb  confesses,  by  the  old 
ballad  of  "  An  old  woman  clothed  in  gray," 
which  he  had  been  reading.  It  is  defective 
as  a  regular  tale.  It  wants  circumstance  and 
probability,  and  is  slenderly  provided  with  char- 
acter.    There  is,  moreover,  no  construction  in 


8S  GEORGE  DYER. 

the  narrative,  and  little  or  no  progress  in  the 
events.  Yet  it  is  very  daintily  told.  The  mind 
of  the  author  \vells  out  in  tiie  purest  streams. 
Having  to  deal  with  one  foul  ineident,  the  tale 
is  nevertheless  without  speck  or  blemish.  A 
virgin  nymph,  bora  of  a  lily,  could  not  have 
unfolded  her  thoughts  more  delicately.  And, 
in  spite  of  its  improbabilit}-,  Rosamond  Gray 
is  very  pathetic.  It  touches  the  sensitive  points 
in  young  hearts ;  and  it  was  by  no  means  with- 
out success  —  the  author's  llrst  success.  It  sold 
much  better  than  his  poems,  and  added  "  a  few 
pounds"  to  his  slender  income. 

George  Dyer,  once  a  pupil  in  Christ's  Hos- 
pital, possessing  a  good  reputation  as  a  clas- 
sical scholar,  and  who  had  preceded  Lamb  in 
the  school,  about  this  time  came  into  the  circle 
of  his  familiars.  Dyer  was  one  of  the  sim- 
plest and  most  inotVcnsivc  men  in  tlie  world : 
in  his  heart  tliere  existed  nothing  but.  what 
was  altogether  pure  and  unsophisticated.  He 
seemed   never   to   ha\e  r^utgrown   the  innocence 


GEORGE  DYER.  89 

of  childhood ;  or  rather  he  apjDcarcd  to  be 
without  those  germs  or  first  principles  of  evil 
which  sometimes  begin  to  show  themselves 
even  in  childhood  itself.  He  Vv'as  not  only 
without  any  of  the  dark  passions  himself,  but 
he  would  not  perceive  them  in  others.  He 
looked  only  on  the  sunshine.  Hazlitt,  speak- 
ing of  him  in  his  "  Conversation  of  Authors," 
says,  "  He  lives  amongst  the  old  authors,  if 
he  does  not  enter  much  into  their  spirit.  'He 
handles  the  covers,  and  turns  over  the  pages, 
and  is  familiar  with  the  names  and  dates.  He 
is  busy  and  self-involved.  He  hangs  like  a 
film  and  cobweb  upon  letters,  or  is  like  the 
dust  upon  the  outside  of  knowledge,  which 
should  not  too  rudely  be  brushed  aside.  He 
follows  learning  as  its  shadow,  but  as  such  he 
is  respectable.  He  browses  on  the  husks  and 
leaves  of  books."  And  Lamb  says,  "  The 
gods,  by  denying  him  the  •  very  faculty  of 
discrimination,  have  eflectually  cut  off  every 
seed  of  envy  in  his  bosom." 


90  GEOIiOE  DYER. 

Dyer  was  very  thin  and  short  in  person, 
and  was  extremely  near-sighted ;  and  his  mo- 
tions were  often  (apparently)  spasmodic.  1 1  is 
means  of  living  were  very  scanty ;  he  sub- 
sisted mainly  by  supervising  the  press,  being 
employed  for  that  purpose  by  booksellers  when 
they  were  printing  Greek  or  Latin  books.  lie 
dwelt  in  Cliflbrd's  Inn,  "  like  a  dove  in  an 
asp's  nest,"  as  Charles  Lamb  wittily  says  ;  and 
he  might  often  have  been  seen  witli  a  classical 
volume  in  his  hand,  and  another  in  liis  pocket, 
walking  slowly  along  Fleet  vStreet  or  its  neigh- 
borhood, unconscious  of  gazers,  cogitating  over 
some  sentence,  the  correctness  of  wliich  it  was 
his  duty  to  determine.  You  might  meet  him 
murmuring  to  himself  in  a  low  voice,  and  ap- 
parently tasting  the  flavor  of  the  words. 

Dyer's  knowledge  of  the  drama  (wliicli  formed 
part  of  the  subject  of  his  first  publication) 
may  be  guessed,  by  his  having  read  Shake- 
speare, "  an  irregular  genius,"  and  having 
dipped  into  Rowe    and  Otway,    but  never  hav- 


.    GEORGE  DYEB.  91 

ing  heard  of  any  other  writers  in  that  class. 
In  absence  of  mind,  he  probably  exceeded 
every  other  living  man.  Lamb  has  set  forth 
one  instance  (which  I  know  to  be  a  fact)  of 
Dyer's  forgetfulness,  in  his  "  Oxford  in  the 
Vacation ; "  and  to  this  various  others  might 
be  added,  such  as  his  emptying  his  snuff-box 
into  the  teapot  when  he  was  preparing  break- 
fast for  a  hungry  friend,  &c.  But  it  is  scarcely 
worth  while  to  chronicle  minutely  the  harm- 
less foibles  of  this  inoffensive  old  man.  If  I 
had  to  write  his  epitaph,  I  should  say  that  he 
was  neither  much  respected  nor  at  all  hated ; 
too  good  to  dislike,  too  inactive  to  excite 
great  affection;  and  that  he  was  as  simple  as 
the  daisy,  which  we  think  we  admire,  and 
daily  tread  under  foot. 

In  1799  Charles  Lamb  visited  Cambridge, 
and  there,  through  the  introduction  of  Lloyd, 
made  the  important  acquaintance  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Manning,  then  a  mathematical  tutor 
in  the  university.     This  soon  grew  into  a  close 


92  MANNING. 

intimacy.  Charles  readily  })erceive(l  the  intel- 
lectual value  of  Mannin^jj,  and  seems  to  have 
eagerly  souj^ht  his  friendship,  wiiich,  he  says, 
(December,  1799)9  ^^ill  remler  the  prospect 
of  the  approaching  century  very  pleasant. 
"  That  century  must  needs  commence  auspi- 
ciously for  mc  "  (he  adds),  "that  brings  with 
it  Manning's  friendship  as  an  earnest  of  its 
after  gifts."  At  first  sight  it  appears  strange 
tliat  there  should  be  formed  a  close  friendship 
between  a  youth,  a  beginner,  or  student  in 
poetry  (no  more),  and  a  professor  of  science 
at  one  of  our  great  seats  of  learning.  But 
these  men  had,  I  suppose,  an  intuitive  percep- 
tion of  each  other's  excellences.  And  there 
sometimes  lie  behind  the  outer  projections  of 
character  a  tiiousaiid  concealed  sluides  wliich 
readily  intermingle  with  those  of  other  people. 
There  were  amongst  Lamb's  tender  thoughts, 
and  Manning's  mathematical  tendencies,  cer- 
tain neutral  (jualities  which  assimilateil  with 
each     other,     and     which    eventually    served    to 


MANNINa.  93 

cement  that  union  between  them  which  con- 
tinued unshaken  during  the  Hves  of  both. 

Lamb's  correspondence  assumed  more  char- 
acter, and  showed  more  critical  quality,  after 
the  intimacy  with  Manning  began.  His  ac- 
quaintance with  Southey,  in  the  first  instance, 
had  the  effect  of  increasing  the  activity  of  his 
mind.  Previously  to  that  time,  his  letters  had 
consisted  chiefly  of  witticisms  (clever  indeed, 
but  not  of  surpassing  quality),  religious 
thoughts,  reminiscences,  &c.,  for  the  most 
part  unadorned  and  simple.  Afterwards, 
especially  after  the  Manning  era,  they  exhibit 
far  greater  weight  of  meaning,  more  fecundity, 
original  thoughts,  and  brilliant  allusions  ;  as  if 
the  imagination  had  begun  to  awaken  and 
enrich  the  understanding.  Manning's  solid, 
scientific  mind  had,  without  doubt,  the  effect 
of  arousing  the  sleeping  vigor  of  Lamb's  in- 
tellect. 

A  long  correspondence  took  place  between 
them.       At     first     Lamb     sent     Manninsr     his 


94  MANNING. 

opinions  only  :  "  Opinion  is  a  species  of  prop- 
erty that  I  am  always  desirous  of  sharing 
with  my  friends,"  Then  he  connnunicates  the 
fact  that  George  Dyer,  "  that  gootl-natured 
poet,  is  now  more  than  nine  months  gone 
with  twin  volumes  of  odes."  Afterwards  he 
tells  him  that  he  is  reading  Burnet's  History 
of  his  own  Times  —  "full  of  scandal,  as  all 
true   history   is." 

On  Manning  quitting  England  for  Ciiina 
(iSo6),  the  letters  become  less  frequent;  they 
continue,  how'evcr,  during  his  absence  :  one  of 
them,  surpassing  the  Elia  essay,  to  "  Distant 
Correspondents,"  is  very  rcmarkal)le  ;  and 
^vhcn  the  Chinese  traveller  returned  to  Lon- 
don, he  was  very  often  a  guest  at  Lamb's 
residence.  I  have  repeatedly  met  him  there. 
His  countenance  was  that  of  an  intelligent, 
steady,  almost  serious  man.  His  journey  to 
the  Celestial  ICmpirc  had  not  been  unfruitful  of 
good;  his  talk  at  all  times  being  full  of  curi- 
ous information,  including  nuich  anecdote,  and 


MANNING.  95 

some  (not  common)  speculations  on  men  unci 
things,  Wlicn  he  returned,  he  brought  with 
him  a  native  of  Ciiina,  whom  he  took  one 
evening  to  a  ball  in  London,  where  the  for- 
eigner from  Shanghai,  or  Pekin,  inquired 
with  much  naivete  as  to  the  amount  of  money 
which  his  host  had  given  to  the  dancers  for 
their  evening's  performance,  and  was  per- 
suaded with  difficulty  that  their  exertions 
were  entirely  gratuitous. 

Manning  had  a  curious  habit  of  bringing 
with  him  (in  his  waistcoat  pocket)  some  pods 
of  the  red  pepper,  whenever  he  expected  to 
partake  of  a  meal.  His  original  intention 
(as  I  understood)  when  he  set  out  for  China, 
was  to  frame  and  publish  a  Chinese  and  Eng- 
lish dictionary;  yet  —  although  he. brought  over 
much  material  for  the  purpose  —  his  jDurpose 
was  never  carried  into  effect.  Lamb  had  great 
love  and  admiration  for  him.  In  a  letter  to 
Coleridge,  in  after  3'ears  (1826),  he  says,  "I 
am   glad    you    esteem    Manning ;     though   you 


96  MANNING. 

sec  but  his  husk  or  shrine.  lie  discloses  not, 
save  to  select  worshippers,  and  will  leave  the 
world  without  any  one  hardly  but  me  know- 
ing how  stui:)endous  a  creature  he  is." 

During  these  years  Lamb's  correspondence 
with  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Walter  Wilson, 
and  Manning  (principally  with  Manning)  goes 
on.  It  is  sometimes  critical,  sometimes  jocose, 
lie  discusses  the  merits  of  various  authors, 
and  more  than  once  expresses  his  extreme  dis- 
taste for  didactic  writing.  Now,  he  says,  it 
is  too  directly  instructive.  Then  he  complains 
that  the  knowledge,  insignificant  and  vapid  as 
it  is,  must  come  in  the  shape  of  knowledge. 
lie  could  not  obtain  at  Newberry's  shop  any 
of  the  old  "  classics  of  the  Nursery,"  he 
says ;  whilst  "  Mrs.  Barbauld's  and  Mrs. 
Trimmer's  nonsense  lay  in  piles  about." 

His  own  dtjmestic  alVairs  struggle  on  as 
usual  ;  at  one  time  calm  and  pleasant,  at 
another  time  troubled  and  uncomfortable, 
owing  to  the    frequent    recurrence    of  his    sis- 


MARY'S  ILLNESSES.  97 

ter's  malady.  In  general  he  bore  these 
changes  with  fortitude ;  I  do  not  observe 
more  than  one  occasion  on  which  (being  then 
himself  ill)  his  firmness  seemed  altogether  to 
give  way.  In  lypSj  indeed,  he  had  said,  "  I 
consider  her  perpetually  on  the  brink  of  mad- 
ness." But  in  May,  1800,  his  old  servant 
Hetty  having  died,  and  Mary  (sooner  than 
usual)  faUing  ill  again,  Charles  was  obliged 
to  remove  her  to  an  asylum ;  and  was  left 
in  the  house  alone  with  Hetty's  dead  body. 
"My  heart  is  quite  sick"  (he  cries),  "and  I 
don't  know  where  to  look  for  relief.  My 
head  is  very  bad.  I  almost  wish  that  Mary 
were  dead."  This  was  the  one  solitary  cry 
of  anguish  that  he  uttered  during  his  long 
years  of  anxiety  and  suffering.  At  all  other 
times  he  bowed  his  head  in  silence,  uncom- 
plaining. 

Charles   Lamb,   with    his    sister,    left    Little 
Queen   Street    on    or    before    1800;    in  which 
year    he    seems    to     have    migrated,    first     to 
7 


9S  HESTER  SAVORY. 

Chapel  Street,  Pcntonvillc ;  next  to  South- 
ampton Buildings,  Chancery  Lane ;  and  final- 
ly to  No.  i6  Mitre  Court  Buildings,  in  the 
Temple,  "  a  pistol  shot  olF  Baron  Maserc's ; " 
and  here  he   resided  for  about  nine  years. 

It  was  during  his  stliy  at  Pentonville  that 
he  "  fell  in  love "  with  a  young  Quaker, 
colled  Hester  Savory.  As  (he  confesses)  "  I 
have  never  spoken  to  her  during  my  life,"  it 
may  be  safely  concluded  that  the  attachment 
was  essentially  Platonic.  This  was  the  young 
girl  who  inspired  those  verses,  now  so  widely 
known  and  admired.  I  remember  them  as 
being  the  first  lines  which  I  ever  saw  of 
Charles  Lamb's  writing.  I  remember  and  ad- 
mire them  still,  for  their  natural,  unaflccted 
stj-lc ;  no  pretence,  no  straining  for  images 
and  fancies  flying  too  high  above  the  subject, 
but  dealing  with  thoughts  that  were  near  his 
aflbctions,  in  a  fU  and  natural  manner.  The 
conclusion  of  the  poem,  composed  and  sent 
after    her    death    (in    February,    iS(>.>)   to    Man- 


POEM  ON  EE8TER  SAVORY'S  DEATH.     99 

ning,  who  was  then  in   Paris,  is  very  sad  and 
tender :  — 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning? 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  will  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  forewarning. 


(   loo  ) 


CHAPTER    IV. 

(^Mig'rations.)  —  "  yo/in  II  ooc/zw'/.'"  —  Blackcs- 
moor.  —  Wordsworth.  —  Ricknia)i.  —  Godivi/i. 
—  I  y.svV  to  the  Lakes.  —  Morjiifij^  Post.  — 
IlazUtt.  —  NcIso7t.  —  Ode  to  Tobacco.  — 
Dra?natic  Specimens^  lOc. —  Itiucr  Temple 
JLaiie.  —  Rcjlcctor.  —  Hogarth  and  Sir  y. 
Reynolds.  —  Leigh  ILint.  —  Lamb^  Haz- 
litt.,  and  IIiDit.  —  Russell  Street  and  The- 
atrical T'ricnds. 

TT  is  not  always  easy  to  fix  Charles  Lamb's 
-■-  doinj^s  (writings  or  mii^rations)  to  any 
precise  date.  The  year  may  generally  be 
ascertained  ;  but  the  day  or  month  is  often  a 
matter  of  surmise  onlv.  Even  the  dates  of 
the  letters  arc  often  derived  from  the  post- 
marks, or  are  sometimes  conjectured  from 
circumstances.*      Occasionally  the    labors  of  a 

•  As  Lamb's  clmngcs    of    residence   were   frcciucnt,    it 
may  be   convenient    to    chronicle    them    in  order,   in    tliis 


"JOHN  WODDVIL."  loi 

drama  or  of  lyric  poems  traverse  several  years, 
and  are  not  to  be  referred  to  any  one  definite 
period.  Thus  "John  Woodvil "  (his  tragedy) 
was  begun  in  1799,  printed  in  iSoo,  and  sub- 
mitted to  Mr.  Kemble  (then  manager  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre)  in  the  Christmas  of  that  year, 
but  was  not  published  until  iSoi. 

After  this  tragedy  had  been  in  Mr.  Kemble's 
hands  for  about  a  year.  Lamb  naturally  became 
urgent  to  hear  his  decision  upon  it.  Upon 
applying  for  this  he  found  that  his  play  was  — 

place,  although  the  precise  date  of  his  moving  from  one 
to  another  can  scarcely  be  specified  in  a  single  instance. 
1775,  Charles  Lamb,  born  in  CroAvn  Office  Row,  Temple. 
1795,  lives  at  No.. 7  Little  Queen  Street,  Holborn.  1800 
(early),  lives  at  No.  45  Chapel  Street,  Pentonville. 
Same  year,  lives  in  Southampton  Buildings,  Chancery 
Lane.  Same  year,  removes  to  No.  16  Mitre  Court 
Buildings,  Temple.  1809,  removes  to  No.  4  Inner  Temple 
Lane.  1817,  removes  to  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden. 
1823,  removes  to  Colebrook  Row,  Islington.  1826,  re- 
moves to  Enfield.  1829,  removes  into  lodgings  in  Enfield. 
1830,  lodges  in  Southampton  Buildings.  1833,  lives  at 
Mrs.  Walden's,  in  Church  Street,  Edmonton ;  where  he 
dies  on  27th  December,  1834. 


ro2  ''JOHN.  WOODVIL." 

lost!  This  was  at  once  acknowledged,  and  a 
"  courteous  request  made  for  another  copy,  if 
I  had  one  ]iy  mc,"  Luckily,  another  copy  ex- 
isted. The  "first  ruiniings"  of  a  genius  were 
not,  therefore,  altogether  lost,  by  having  been 
cast,  without  a  care,  into  the  dusty  linil:)o  of 
the  theatre.  The  other  copy  was  at  once  sup- 
plied, and  the  play  very  speedily  rejected.  It 
was  afterwards  facetiously  brought  forward  in 
one  of  the  early  numbers  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  and  there  noticed  as  a  rude  specimen 
of  the  earliest  age  of  tlic  drama,  "  older 
than  yEschylus ! " 

Lamb  met  these  accidents  of  fortune  man- 
fully, and  did  not  abstain  from  exercising  his 
own  Shandean  humor  thereon.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  "John  Woodvil"  is  not  a  tra- 
gedy likely  to  bring  much  success  to  a  play- 
house. It  is  such  a  drama  as  a  ^oung  pf)ct, 
fill!  of  love  for  iIk-  ICli/.aI)ethan  wiitcrs,  and 
without  any  knowledge  of  (ho  rcNjuisitions  of 
the  stage,  would   be   hkcly   U>  produce.     There 


SOUTEEY'S    OPINION  OF  "  WOODVIL."  103 

is  no  plot ;  little  probability  in  the  story ; 
which  itself  is  not  very  scientifically  developed. 
There  are  some  pretty  lines,  especially  some 
which  have  often  been  the  subject  of  quota- 
tion ;  but  there  is  not  much  merit  in  the  char- 
acters of  the  drama,  with  the  exception  of  the 
heroine,  who  is  a  heroine  of  the  "  purest 
water."  Lamb's  friend  Southey,  in  writing 
to  a  correspondent,  pronounces  the  following 
opinion :  "  Lamb  is  printing  his  play,  which 
will  please  you  by  the  exquisite  beauty  of  its 
poetry,  and  provoke  you  by  the  exquisite  sil- 
liness of  its  story." 

In  October,  1799,  Lamb  went  to  see  the 
remains  of  the  old  house  (Gilston)  in  Hert- 
fordshire, where  his  grandmother  once  lived, 
and  the  "old  church  where  the  bones' of  my 
honored  §jranddame  lie."  This  visit  was,  in 
later   years,  recorded    in    the    charming    paper 

entitled    "  Blakesmoor    in    H shire."       He 

found  that  the  house  where  he  had  spent  his 
pleasant  holidays,  when  a  little  boy,  had  been 


1 04  "  DLAEESMOOR." 

demolished ;  it  was,  in  fact,  taken  down  for 
the  purpose  of  reconstruction  ;  l)ut  out  of  the 
niins  he  conjures  up  pleasant  ghosts,  whom  he 
restores  and  brings  before  a  younger  genera- 
tion. There  arc  few  of  his  papers  in  which 
the  past  years  of  his  life  arc  more  delightfully 
revived.  The  house  had  been  "  reducccf  to 
an  antiquity."  But  we  go  with  him  to  the 
grass  plat,  were  he  used  to  read  Cowley ;  to 
the  tapestried  bedrooms,  where  the  mythologi- 
cal people  of  Ovid  used  to  stand  forth,  half 
alive ;  even  to  "  that  haunted  bedroom  in 
which  old  Sarah  Battle  died,"  and  into  which 
he  "  used  to  creep  in  a  passion  of  fear." 
These  things  are  all  touched  with  a  delicate 
pen,  mixed  and  incorporated  with  tender  re- 
flections; for,  "The  solitude  of  childhood" 
(as  he  says)  "  is  not  so  much  the  jpother  of 
thought  as  the  feeder  of  love."  With  him  it 
■was  both. 

Lamb  became   acquainted  with  Wordsworth 
when   he  visited  Ojlcridge,   in   the  summer   of 


ACQUAINTANCE   WITH  WORDSWORTH.     105 

iSoo.  At  that  time  his  old  schoolfellow  lived 
at  Stowey,  and  the  greater  poet  was  his  neigh- 
bor. It  is  not  satisfactorily  shown  in  what 
manner  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  first  attracted 
the  notice  of  Charles  Lamb,  nor  its  first  effect 
upon  him.  Perhaps  the  verse  of  Coleridge  was 
not  a  bad  stepping-stone  to  that  elevation  which 
enabled  Chai-les  to  Ipok  into  the  interior  of 
Wordsworth's  mind.  The  two  poets  were  not 
unlike  in  some  respects,  although  Coleridge 
seldom  (except  perhaps  in  the  "  Ancient  Mar- 
iner") ventured  into  the  plain,  downright  phra- 
seology of  the  other.  It  is  very  soon  apparent, 
however,  that  Lamb  was  able  to  admit  Words- 
worth's great  merits.  In  August,  iSoo  (just 
after  the^ completion  of  his  visit  to  Stowey),  he 
writes,  "  I  would  pay  five  and  forty  thousand 
carriages"  (parcel  fares)  "to  read  Words- 
worth's tragedy.  Pray  grve  me  an  order  on 
Longman  for  the  '  Lyrical  Ballads.' "  And  in 
October,  1800,  the  two  authors  must  have  been 
on  familiar  terms  with  each  other ;  for  in  a  let- 


io6     INVITATION  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

tcr  addressed  by  Lamb  to  Wordsworth,  "  Dear 
Wordsworth,"  it  appears  that  tlic  hitter  had 
requested  him  to  advance  money  for  the  pur- 
chase of  books,  to  a  considerable  amount. 
This  was  at  a  time  when  Lamb  was  "  not 
plethorically  abounding  in  cash."  The  books 
required  an  outlay  of  eight  pounds,  and  Lamb 
had  not  the  sum  then  iji  his  possession.  "  It 
is  a  scuny  thing"  (he  writes)  "  to  cry.  Give  mc 
the  money  first ;  and  I  am  the  first  of  the  Lambs 
that  has  done  this  for  many  centuries."  Shortly 
aftenvards  Lamb  sent  his  play  to  Wordsworth, 
who  (this  was  previous  to  30  January,  1801) 
appears  to  have  invited  Charles  to  visit  him  in 
Cumberland.  Our  humorist  did  not  accept  this 
invitation,  being  doul)tful  \Yhethcr  he  could 
"  afford  so  desperate  a  journey,"  and  ])eing  (he 
says)  "not  at  all  romance-bit  about  Nature;" 
the  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky,  being,  "when  all  is 
said,  but  a  house  to  live  in." 

It  is  not  part  of  my  task  to  adjust  the  claims 
of  the  various  writers  of  verse  in  this  country 


KEATS  AND   WORDSWORTH.  107 

to  their  stations  in  the  Temple  of  Fame.  If 
Keats  was  by  nature  the  most  essentially  a  poet 
in  the  present  century,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
Wordsworth  has  left  his  impress  more  broadly 
and  more  permanently  than  any  other  of  our 
later  writers  upon  the  literature  of  England. 
There  are  barren,  unpeopled  wastes  in  the 
"  Excursion,"  and  in  some  of  the  longer  poems  ; 
but  when  his  Genius  stirs,  we  find  ourselves  in 
rich  places  which  have  no  parallel  in  any  book 
since  the  death  of  Milton.  When  his  lyrical 
ballads  first  appeared,  they  encountered  much 
opposition  and  some  contempt.  Readei-s  had 
not  for  many  years  been  accustomed  to  drink 
the  waters  of  Helicon  pure  and  undefiled  ;  and 
Wordsworth  (a  prophet  of  the  true  faith)  had 
to  gird  up  his  loins,  march  into  the  desert,  and 
prepare  for  battle.  He  has,  indeed,  at  last 
achieved  a  conquest ;  but  a  long  course  of  time, 
although  sure  of  eventual  success,  elapsed  before 
he  could  boast  of  victory.  The  battle  has  been 
perilous.     When   the   "  Excursion "    was    pub- 


loS        ADMIRATION   OF   WOUDSWoliTIl. 

lishcd  (in  1S14),  Lamb  wrote  a  review  of  it 
for  ''  The  Qiiarterly  Review."  Whatever  might 
have  been  the  actual  litness  of  tliis  performance, 
it  seems  to  have  been  hacked  to  pieces  ;  more 
tlian  a  third  of  the  substance  cut  away ;  the 
warm  expressions  converted  into  cold  ones ; 
and  (in  Lamb's  phrase)  "  the  eyes  pulled  out 
and  the  bleeding  sockets  left."  This  mangling 
(or  amendment,  as  I  suppose  it  was  considered) 
was  the  work  of  the  late  Mr.  Gilford.  Charles 
had  a  great  admiration  for  Wordsworth.  It 
was  short  of  prostration,  however.  He  states 
that  the  style  of  "  Peter  Bell "  docs  not  satisfy 
him;  but  " '  Hartleap  Well'  is  the  tale  for 
me,"  are  his  words  in    1S19. 

I  liave  a  \ivid  recollection  of  Wordsworth, 
wlio  was  a  very  grave  man,  with  strong  features 
and  a  deep  voice.  I  met  him  first  at  the  cham- 
bers (they  were  in  the  Temple)  of  Mr.  Henry 
Crabb  Robinson,  one  of  the  most  amiable  of 
men.  I  was  a  young  versifier,  and  Wordsworth 
was  just  emerging  out  of  a  cloud  of  ignorant 


WORDSWORTH.  109 

contumely  into  the  sunrise  of  his  fame.  He 
was  fond  (perhaps  too  fond)  of  reciting  his 
own  poetry  before  friends  and  strangers.  I 
was  not  attracted  by  his  manner,  which  was 
ahnost  too  solemn,  but  I  was  deeply  impressed 
by  some  of  the  weighty  notes  in  his  voice,  when 
he  was  delivering  out  his  oracles.  I  forget 
whether  it  was  "  Dion "  or  the  beautiful  poem 
of"  Laodamia"  that  he  read  ;  but  I  remembered 
the  reading  long  aftei'wards,  as  one  recollects 
the  roll  of  the  spent  thunder. 

I  met  Wordsworth  occasionally,  afterwards, 
at  Charles  Lamb's,  at  Mr.  Rogers's,  and  else- 
where, and  once  he  did  me  the  honor  to  call 
upon  me.  I  remember  that  he  had  a  very 
gentle  aspect  when  he  looked  at  my  children. 
He  took  the  hand  of  my  dear  daughter  (who 
died  lately)  in  his  hand,  and  spoke  some  words 
to  her,  the  recollection  of  which,  perhaps,  helped, 
with  other  things,  to  incline  her  to  poetry.  Haz- 
litt  says  that  Wordsworth's  face,  notwithstanding 
his   constitutional   gravity,    sometimes    revealed 

E  * 


I  lo  JOHN  RICKMAN. 

indications  of  dry  humor.  And  once,  at  a  morn- 
ing visit,  I  heard  him  j^ive  an  account  of  his 
having  breakfasted  in  company  with  Coleridge, 
and  allowed  him  to  expatiate  to  the  extent  of 
his  lungs.  "  I  low  could  you  permit  him  to  go 
on  and  weary  himself? "  said  Rogers ;  "  why, 
you  arc  to  meet  him  at  dinner  this  evening." 
"  Yes,"  replied  Wordsworth  ;  "  I  know  that 
very  well ;  but  we  like  to  take  the  sii/ig  out 
of  him  beforehand." 

About  a  year  after  Lamb's  first  knowledge  of 
Manning,  his  small  stock  of  friends  was  en- 
larged by  the  acquisition  of  Mr.  John  Rickman, 
one  of  the  clerks  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
"lie  is  a  most  pleasant  hand"  (writes  Lamb), 
"  a  fine  rattling  fellow,  who  has  gone  through 
life  laughing  at  solemn  apes;  himself  hugely 
literate,  from  matter  of  fact,  to  Xcnophon  and 
Plato :  he  can  talk  Greek  with  Porson,  and 
nonsense  with  me."  "  He  understands  you " 
(he  adds)  ''  the  first  time.  You  never  need 
speak   twice   to    him.     Fullest  of  matter,  with 


GODWIN.  1 1 1 

least  verbosity."  A  year  or  two  afterwards, 
when  Rickman  went  to  Ireland,  Lamb  wrote 
to  Manning,  "  I  have  lost  by  his  going  what 
seems  to  me  I  never  can  recover  —  a  Jinishcd 
man.  I  almost  dare  pronounce  you  never  saw 
his  equal.  His  memory  will  come  to  me  as 
the  brazen  serpent  to  the  Israelites."  Robert 
Southey  also,  when  writing  to  his  brother  (in 
1804),  says,  "Coleridge  and  Rickman,  with 
William  Taylor,  make  my  Trinity  of  living 
greatness."  A  voluminous  correspondence  took 
place  between  Southey  and  Rickman,  ranging 
from  1800  to  1839,  in  the  course  of  which  a 
variety  of  important  subjects — namely,  History, 
Antiquities,  Political  Economy,  Poor  Law,  and 
general  Politics  were  deliberately  argued  be- 
tween them.  From  this  it  appears  that  Southey, 
whose  reading  was  very  extensive,  must  have 
had  great  trust  in  the  knowledge  and  judgment 
of  Rickman. 

Lamb's  acquaintance  with  Godwin,  Holcroft, 
and    Clarkson    was    formed    about    this    time. 


112  GODWIN. 

Godwin  had  been  introduced  to  Lamb,  by  Cole- 
ridge, in  iSoo.  Tlic  first  interview  is  made 
memorable  by  Godwin's  opening  question : 
"And  pray,  Mr.  Lami),  arc  you  toad  or  frog?" 
This  inquiry,  having  reference  to  Gilray's  olVen- 
sive  caricature,  did  not  afford  promise  of  a  very 
cheerful  intimacy.  Lamb,  however,  who  ac- 
corded great  respect  to  Godwin's  intellect,  did 
not  resent  it,  but  received  his  approaches  fa- 
vorably, and  indeed  entertained  him  at  breakfast 
the  next  morning.  The  acquaintance  afterwards 
expanded  into  familiarity  ;  but  I  never  observed 
the  appearance  of  any  warm  friendship  between 
them.  Godwin's  precision  and  extreme  cold- 
ness of  manner  (perhaps  of  disposition)  pre- 
vented this ;  and  Lamb  was  able,  through  all 
his  admiration  of  the  other's  power,  to  discern 
those  points  in  his  character  which  were  ob- 
noxious to  his  own.  vSomc  years  previously, 
Charles  had  entertained  mucli  dislike  to  the 
philosopher's  opinions,  and  referred  to  liim  as 
"  that  Godwin  ;  "  and  afterwards,  when  eulogiz- 


GODWIN.  113 

ing  the  quick  and  fine  intellect  of  Rickman,  he 
says,  "  He  does  not  want  explanation,  transla- 
tions, limitations,  as  Godwin  does,  when  you 
make  an  assertion." 

When  Godwin  published  his  "  Essay  on  Sep- 
ulchres," wherein  he  professed  to  erect  a 
wooden  slab  and  a  white  cross,  to  be  perpetzi- 
ally  renewed  to  the  end  of  time  ("  to  survive 
the  fall  of  empires,"  as  Miss  Lamb  says),  in 
order  to  distinguish  the  site  of  every  great  man's 
grave,  Lamb  speaks  of  the  project  in  these 
terms :  "  Godwin  has  written  a  pretty  absurd 
book  about  Sepulchres.  He  was  affronted  be- 
cause I  told  him  that  it  was  better  than  Hervey, 
but  not  so  good  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne."  Suf- 
ficient intimacy,  however,  had  arisen  between 
them  to  induce  Lamb  to  write  a  facetious  epi- 
logue to  Godwin's  tragedy  of  "  Antonio ;  or, 
the  Soldier's  Return."  This  came  out  in  iSoo, 
and  was  very  speedily  damned  ;  although  Lamb 
said  that  "  it  had  one  fine  line  ;  "  which  indeed 
he    repeated    occasionally.       Godwin    bore    this 


114  VISIT  TO   THE  LAKES. 

failure,  it  must  be  admitted,  without  being  de- 
pressed by  it,  although  he  was  a  very  poor  man, 
and  although  he  was  "  five  hundred  pounds  ideal 
money  out  of  pocket  by  the  failure." 

In  1S02  Lamb  visited  Coleridge,  who  was 
then  living  near  Keswick,  in  Cumberland.  For 
the  fnst  time  in  his  life  he  beheld  lakes  and 
mountains  ;  and  the  cHect  upon  him  was  star- 
tling and  unexpected.  It  was  much  like  the 
impression  made  by  the  first  sight  of  the  Alps 
upon  Leigh  Hunt,  who  had  theretofore  always 
maintained  tliat  those  merely  great  heaps  of  earth 
ought  to  have  no  ed'ect  upon  a  properly  con- 
stituted mind ;  but  he  freely  confessed  after- 
wards, tliat  he  had  been  mistaken.  Lamb 
had  been  more  than  once  invited  to  visit  the 
romantic  Lake  country.  lie  had  no  desire  to 
inspect  the  Ural  chain,  where  the  malachite  is 
hidden,  nor  the  silver  regions  of  Potosi  ;  but 
he  was  all  at  once  afibcted  by  a  desire  of  "  vis- 
iting remote  regions."  It  was  a  sudden  irrita- 
bility, which   could    only   be  <)uieted    by  travel. 


VISIT  TO   THE  LAKE  8.  115 

Charles  and  his  sister  therefore  went,  without 
giving  any  notice  to  Coleridge,  who,  however, 
received  them  very  kindly,  and  gave  up  all  his 
time  in  order  to  show  them  the  wonders  of 
the  neighborhood.  The  visitors  arrived  there 
in  a  "gorgeous  sunset"  (the  only  one  that 
Lamb  saw  during  his  stay  in  the  country),  and 
thought  that  they  had  got  "  into  fairy-land." 
"  We  entered  Coleridge's  study  "  (he  writes  to 
Manning,  shortly  afterwards)  "just  in  the 
dusk,  when  the  mountains  were  all  dark.  Such 
an  impression  I  never  received  from  objects  of 
sight,  nor  do  I  suppose  I  ever  can  again.  Glori- 
ous creatures,  Skiddaw,  &c.  I  shall  never  forget 
how  ye  lay  about  that  night,  like  an  intrench- 
ment ;  gone  to  bed,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  night." 
They  went  to  Coleridge's  house,  in  which 
"  he  had  a  large,  antique,  ill-shaped  room, 
with  an  old  organ,  never  played  upon,  an 
^olian  harp,  and  shelves  of  scattered  folios," 
and  remained  there  three  weeks,  visiting  Words- 
worth's cottage,  he   himself  being    absent,  and 


ii6  UK  TURN   TO  LONDON. 

meeting  the  ClarUsous  ("  good,  hospitable  peo- 
ple"). They  tarried  there  one  night,  and 
met  Lloyd.  They  clambered  up  to  the  top 
of  Skiddaw,  "  and  went  to  Grassmere,  Am- 
bleside, Ullsvvater,  and  over  the  middle  of 
Ilelvellyn."  Coleridge  then  dwelt  upon  a 
small  hill  by  the  side  of  Keswick,  quite  "  en- 
veloped on  all  sides  by  a  net  of  mountains." 
On  his  return  to  London,  Lamb  wrote  to  his 
late  host,  saying,  "  I  feel  I  shall  remember 
your  mountains  to  the  last  day  of  my  life. 
They  haunt  me  perpetually.  I  am  like  a  man 
who  has  been  falling  in  love  imknown  to 
himself,  which  he  ihids  out  when  he  leaves 
the  lady."  lie  soon  subsided,  however,  into 
his  old   natural    metroj^olitan  happiness. 

Wordsworth  was  not  in  the  Lake  country 
when  Lamb  visited  Coleridge ;  but  after  his 
return  the  great  poet  visited  Charles  in  Lon- 
don, passed  some  time  there,  and  then  de- 
parted for  Yorkshire,  where  he  went  in  order 
to  be   married. 


"MORNING  POST."  117 

At  this  time  Lamb  contributed  (generally 
facetiffi)  to  various  newspapers,  now  forgotten. 
One  of  them,  it  was  said  jocosely,  had  "  two 
and  twenty  readers,  including  the  printer,  the 
pressman,  and  the  devil."  But  he  was  still 
very  poor;  so  poor  that  Coleridge  offered  to 
supply  him  with  prose  translations  from  the 
German,  in  order  that  he  might  versify  them 
for  the  "Morning  Post,"  and  thus  obtain  a 
little  money.  In  one  of  his  letters  Lamb 
says,  "  If  I  got  or  could  but  get  fifty  pounds  a 
year  only,  in  addition  to  what  I  have,  I  should 
live  in  affluence." 

About  the  time  that  he  is  writing  this,  he  is 
recommending  Chapman's  "  Homer "  to  Cole- 
ridge ;  is  refusing  to  admit  Coleridge's  dona 
Jide  debt  to  himself  of  fifteen  pounds ;  is  com- 
posing Latin  letters ;  and  in  other  respects  de- 
porting himself  like  a  "  gentleman  who  lives  at 
home  at  ease ; "  not  like  a  poor  clerk,  obliged 
to  husband  his  small  means,  and  to  deny 
himself  the  cheap  luxury  of  books  that  he  had 


iiS  LAMB'S  POVERTY. 

long  coveted.  ''Do  you  remember"  (his  sis- 
ter says  to  him,  in  the  Essay  on  "Old  China") 
"■  the  brown  suit  lliat  <^re\v  so  tlireadbare,  all 
because  of  tliat  folio  of  lieaumont  and  Fletcher 
that  you  drajj^ged  home  late  at  night  from 
Barker's,  in  Covent  Garden ;  when  you  set 
ofT  near  ten  o'clock,  on  Saturday  night,  from 
Islington,  fearing  you  should  be  too  late  ;  and 
when  you  lugged  it  home,  wishing  it  was 
twice  as  cumbersome,"  &c. 

These  realities  of  poverty,  very  imperfectly 
covered  over  by  words  of  fiction,  are  very 
toucliing.  It  is  deeply  interesting,  that  Essay, 
where  the  rare  enjoyments  of  a  poor  scholar 
arc  brought  into  contrast  and  relief  with  the 
indifl'erence  that  grows  upon  liim  Avhen  his 
increased  income  enal)les  him  to  accjuire  any 
objects  he  please^.  Those  things  are  no 
longer  distinguished  as  "enjoyments"  whicli 
arc  not  purcliased  l)y  a  sacrifice.  "A  piu- 
chase  is  but  a  purchase  now.  Formerly  it 
used    to    l)e    a    triumph.       A    thing  was   wortli 


WILLIAM  UAZLITT.  119 

buying  when  we  felt  the    money  that  we  paid 
for  it." 

(1S04.)  The  intimacy  of  that  extraordinary 
man,  WiUiani  Hazlitt,  was  the  great  gain  of 
Lamb  at  tliis  period  of  his  life.  If  Lamb's 
youngest  and  tendcrest  reverence  was  given 
to  Coleridge,  Hazlitt's  intellect  must  also 
have  commanded  his  later  permanent  respect. 
Without  the  imagination  and  extreme  facility 
of  Coleridge,  he  had  almost  as  much  subtlety 
and  far  more  steadfastness  of  mind.  Perhaps 
this  steadfastness  remained  sometimes  vmtil  it 
took  the  color  of  obstinacy ;  but,  as  in  the 
case  of  his  constancy  to  the  first  Napoleon, 
it  was  obstinacy  riveted  and  made  firm  by 
some  concurring  respect.  I  do  not  know 
that  Hazlitt  had  the  more  affectionate  nature 
of  the  two  ;  but  assuredly  he  was  less  tossed 
about  and  his  sight  less  obscured  by  floating 
fancies  and  vast  changing  projects  {^inuscce 
volitantes)  than  the  other.  To  the  one  are 
ascribed   fierce   and   envious    passions ;    coarse 


I20  .    IIAZLITT. 

thoughts  and  habits — (he  has  indeed  been 
crowned  by  defamation)  ;  whilst  to  Coleridge 
have  been  awardeil  reputati(jn  and  glory,  and 
l^raise  from  a  thousand  tongues.  To  seeure 
justice  we  must  wait  for  unbiassed  posterity. 
I  meet,  at  present,  with  few  persons  who 
recollect  much  of  ILulitt.  Some  profess  to 
have  heard  nothing  of  him  except  his  preju- 
dices and  violence ;  but  his  prejudices  were 
few,  and  his  violence  (if  violence  he  had) 
was  of  very  raie  occurrence.  lie  was  ex- 
tremely patient,  indeed,  although  earnest  when 
discussing  poiuts  in  politics,  respecting  which 
he  held  very  strong  and  decided  opinions. 
But  he  circulated  his  thoughts  on  many  other 
subjects,  whereon  he  ought  not  to  have  ex- 
cited oflence  or  opposition.  He  wrote  (and 
he  wrote  well)  upon  many  things  lying  far 
beyond  tiie  limits  (jf  politics.  To  use  his  own 
words,  "  I  have  at  least  glanced  over  a  num- 
ber of  subjects  —  painting,  poetry,  prose,  plays, 
politics,    parliamentary    sjjeakcrs,    metaphysical 


EAZLITT.  121 

lore,  books,  men,  and  things."  This  list,  ex- 
tensive as  it  is,  does  not  specify  very  precisely 
all  the  subjects  on  which  he  wrote.  His 
thoughts  range  over  the  literature  of  Elizabeth 
and  James's  times,  and  of  the  time  of  Charles 
II. ;  over  a  large  portion  of  modern  literature  ; 
over  the  distinguishing  character  of  men, 
their  peculiarities  of  mind  and  manners ; 
over  the  wonders  of  poetry,  the  subtleties  of 
metaphysics,  and  the  luminous  regions  of  art. 
In  painting,  his  criticisms  (it  is  prettily  said 
by  Leigh  Hunt)  cast  a  light  upon  the  sub- 
ject like  the  glory  reflected  "  from  a  painted 
window."  I  myself  have,  in  my  library, 
eighteen  volumes  of  Hazlitt's  works,  and  I 
do  not  possess  all  that  he  published.  Be- 
sides being  an  original  thinker,  Hazlitt  ex- 
celled in  conversation.  He  was,  moreover, 
a  very  temperate  liver :  yet  his  enemies  pro- 
claimed to  the  world  that  he  was  wanting  even 
in  sobriety.  During  the  thirteen  years  that  I 
knew  him  intimately,  and  (at  certain  seasons) 


123  IIAZLITT. 

saw  him  almobt  every  day,  I  know  tliat  he 
drank  nothing  stronger  than  water ;  except  tea, 
indeed,  in  whicli  he  indulged  in  the  morning. 
Had  he  been  as  temperate  in  his  poHtical 
views  as  in  his  cups,  he  would  have  escaped 
the  slander  that  pursued  him  through  life. 

The  great  intimacy  between  these  two  distin- 
guished writers,  Charles  Lamb  and  William 
Ilazlitt  (for  they  had  known  each  other  be- 
fore), seems  to  have  commenced  in  a  singular 
manner.  They  were  one  day  at  Godwin's, 
when  "■  a  fierce  dispute  was  going  on  between 
Ilolcroft  and  Coleridge,  as  to  which  was  best, 
'  Man  as  he  was,  or  Man  as  he  is  to  l)e.'  '  Give 
me,'  says  Lamb,  '  man  as  he  is  iioi  to  be.' " 
"  This  was  the  beginning"  (Hazlitt  says,)  "of 
a  friendship  which,  I  believe,  still  continues." 
ILazlitt  married  in  1S05,  anil  his  wife  soon 
became  familiar  with  Mary  Lamb.  Indeed, 
Charles  and  his  sister  more  than  once  visited 
the  TIazlitts,  who  at  that  time  lived  at  W'in- 
terslow,     near    Salisbury    Plain,      and     enjoyed 


EAZLITT.  1 33 

their  visits  greatly,  walking  from  eight  to 
twenty  miles  a  day,  and  seeing  Wilton,  Stone- 
henge,  and  the  other  (to  them  unaccustomed)  , 
sights  of  the  country.  "  The  quiet,  lazy,  de- 
licious month "  passed  there  is  refeiTcd  to  in 
one  of  Miss  Lamb's  pleasant  letters.  And 
the  acquaintance  soon  deepened  into  friend- 
ship. Whatever  good  will  was  exhibited  by 
Hazlitt  (and  there  was  much)  is  repaid  by 
Lamb  in  his  letter  to  Southey,  published  in 
the  "London  Magazine"  (October,  1S33), 
wherein  he  places  on  record  his  pride  and 
admiration  of  his  friend.  "  So  far  from  being 
ashamed  of  the-  intimacy  "  (he  says),  "  it  is  my 
boast  that  I  was  able,  for  so  many  years,  to 
have  preserved  it  entire ;  and  I  think  I  shall 
go  to  my  grave  without  finding  or  expecting 
to  find  such  another  companion." 

Lamb's  respect  for  men  and  things  did  not 
depend  on  repute.  His  fondness  for  old  books 
seldom  (never,  perhaps,  except  in  the  single 
case    of  the    Duchess    of  Newcastle)     deluded 


1 24  NELSON. 

him  into  a  respect  for  old  books  which  were 
without  merit.  lie  required  tliat  excellence 
.should  be  combined  with  anti([uity.  A  <i^reat 
name  was  generally  to  him  simply  a  great 
name;  no  more.  If  it  had  lasted  through  cen- 
turies, indeed,  as  in  the  case  of  Michael  An- 
gelo,  tlien  he  admitted  tliat  "  a  great  name 
implied  greatness."  He  did  not  think  that 
greatness  lay  in  the  "  thews  and  sinews,"  or 
in  the  bulk  alone.  Wlien  Nelson  was  walking 
on  the  quay  at  Yarmouth,  the  mob  cried  out 
in  derision,  "  Wiiat !  make  that  little  fellow  a 
captain  !  "  Lamb  thouglit  otherwise  ;  and  in 
regret  for  the  deatli  of  that  great  seaman,  he 
says,  "  I  have  folltnved  him  ever  since  I  saw 
him  walking  in  I'all  Mall,  looking  just  as 
a  hero  should  look  "  (/.  r.,  simply).  "  lie 
was  the  only  pretence  of  a  great  man  wc 
had."  The  large  stage  blusterer  and  ostenta- 
tious drawcansir  were  never,  in  Lamb's  esti- 
mation, models  for  heroes.  In  the  case  of 
the    (irst   Napoleon    also,   he     writes,    '"'  He    is    a 


ODE   TO   TOBACCO.  125 

fine  fellow,  as  my  barber  says ;  and  I  should 
not  mind  standing  bareheaded  at  his  table  to 
do  him  service  in  his  fall."  This  was  in  Au- 
gust,  1S15. 

The  famous  "  Ode  to  Tobacco  "  was  written 
in  1805,  and  the  pretty  stories  founded  on  the 
plays  of  Shakespeare  were  composed  or  trans- 
lated about  the  year  1806;  Lamb  taking  the 
tragic,  and  his  sister  the  other  share  of  the 
version.  These  tales  were  to  produce  about 
sixty  pounds  ;  to  them  a  sum  which  was  most 
important,  for  he  and  Mary  at  that  time  hailed 
the  addition  of  twenty  pounds  to  his  salary 
(on  the  retirement  of  an  elder  clerk)  as  a 
grand  addition  to  their  comforts. 

Charles  was  at  this  period  (February,  1806) 
at  work  upon  a  farce,  to  be  called  "  Mr.  H. ;  " 
from  which  he  says,  "if  it  has  a  'good  run' 
I  shall  get  two  hundred  pounds,  and  I  hope 
one  hundred  pounds  for  the  copyright."  "  Mr. 
H."  (which  rested  solely  upon  the  absurdity 
of  a  name,  which  after  all  was  not  irresistibly 

F 


126  mS  FARCE. 

absurd)  was  accepted  at  the  theatre,  but  un- 
fortunately it  had  tioi  "  a  good  run."  It  failed, 
not  cjuite  inidcscrvcdly  perhaps,  for  (although 
it  lias  since  had  some  success  in  America) 
there  was  not  much  probability  of  its  pros- 
perity in  London.  It  was  acted  once  (loth 
Dccctiiber,  iSo6),  and  was  announced  for  rep- 
etition on  the  following  evening,  but  was 
withdrawn.  Lamb's  courage  and  good  humor 
did  not  fail.  lie  joked  about  it  to  Words- 
worth, said  that  he  had  many  fears  about  it, 
and  admitted  that  "John  Bull  required  solidcr 
fare  than  a  bare  letter."  As  he  says,  in  his 
letter  to  the  poet,  "  a  hundred  hisses  (hang 
the  word,  I  write  it  like  kisses)  outweigh  a 
thousand  claps.  The  former  come  more 
directly  from  the  heart.  Well"  (he  adds),  "it 
is  withdrawn,  atid   there's  an  end." 

In  1S07  were  published  "  Specimens  of 
Dramatic  Poets  contemporary  \\\{\\  Shake- 
speare;" and  these  made  Lamb  Unown  as  a 
man     conversant    with    nur    old    Ln-rlish    litera- 


DRAMATIC  SPECIMENS,  ETC.  127 

turc,  and  helped  mainly  to  direct  the  taste 
of  the  public  to  those  fine  writers.  The  book 
brought  repute  (perhaps  a  little  money)  to 
him.  Soon  afterwards  he  published  "  The 
Adventures  of  Ulysses,"  which  was  intended 
to  be  an  introduction  to  the  reading  of  "  Te- 
lemachus,"  always  a  popular  book.  These 
"adventures"  were  derived  from  Chapman's 
"  Translation  of  Homer,"  of  which  Lamb 
says,  "  Chapman  is  divine ;  and  my  abridg- 
ment has  not,  I  hope,  quite  emptied  him  of 
his  divinity." 

In  or  about  1808  Miss  Lamb's  pretty  little 
stories  called  "Mrs.  Leicester's  School"  (to 
which  Charles  contributed  three  tales)  were 
published ;  and  soon  afterwards  a  small  book 
entitled  "  Poetry  for  Children,"  being  a  joint 
publication  by  brother  and  sister,  came  ov;t. 
"  It  was  done  by  me  and  Mary  in  the  last  six 
months"  (January,  1809).  It  does  not  appear 
to  what  extent,  if  at  all,  it  added  to  the  poor 
clerk's  means. 


1 28  IXXKR   TEMl'LK   I. AM-:. 

In  the  same  year  (as  Miss  Lamb  writes  in 
DcccMiiber,  iSoS),  Charles  was  invited  by  Tom 
Slieridan  to  write  some  scenes  in  a  speaking 
Pantomime  ;  the  t)tlier  parts  of  which  (the 
eloquence  not  of  words)  had  l)een  already 
manufactured  by  Tom  and  his  more  celc- 
brated  fatlier,  Richard  Brinsley.  Lamb  and 
Tom  Sheridan  had  been,  it  seems,  communi- 
cative over  a  bottle  of  claret,  when  an  agree- 
ment for  the  above  purpose  was  entered  into 
between  them.  Tliis  was  subsequently  carried 
into  ellect,  and  a  drama  was  composed.  This 
drama,  still  extant  in  the  British  Museum,  in 
Lamb's  own  writing,  appears  to  be  a  species 
of  comic  opera,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in 
Gibraltar,  but  is  without  a  name.  I  ha\e  not 
seen  it,  but  speak   upon  the  report  of  others. 

In  1S09  Lamb  moved  once  more  into  the 
Temi)le,  now  to  the  top  story  of  No.  4  Inner 
Temple  Lane,  '"  where  the  household  gods  arc 
slow  to  come,  but  wliere  I  mean  to  live  and 
die"     (he     says).       From      this     place     (since 


TRANSIENT  ABSTINENCE.  129 

pulled  down  and  rebuilt)  he  writes  to  Man- 
ning, who  is  in  China,  "  Come,  and  bring 
any  of  your  friends  the  Mandarins  with  you. 
My  best  room  commands  a  court,  in  which 
thei^e  are  trees  and  a  pump,  the  water  of 
which  is  excellent  cold  —  with  brandy ;  and 
not  very  insipid  without."  He  sends  Man- 
ning some  of  his  little  books,  to  give  him 
"  some  idea  of  European  literature."  It  is  in 
this  letter  (January,  1810)  that  he  speaks  of 
Braham  and  his  singing,  which  I  have  else- 
where alluded  to ;  of  Kate  with  nine  stars 
*********  ^u  though  she  is  but 
one");  of  his  book  (for  children)  "on  titles 
of  honor,"  exemplifying  the  eleven  gradations, 
by  which  Mr.  C.  Lamb  rises  in  succession  to 
be  Baron,  Marquis,  Duke,  and  Emperor  Lamb, 
and  finally  Pope  Innocent,  and  other  lively 
matters  fit  to  solace  an  English  mathematician 
self-banished  to  China. 

In  July,   iSio,  an    abstinence  from  all  spirit- 
uous  liquors  took   place.     Lamb  says   that  his 
9 


I^O  II  U<!  Aim  I. 

sister  has  "  taken  to  water  like  a  luinf^ry 
otter,"  whilst  he  "  limps  after  her  "  for  virtue's 
sake ;  but  he  is  "  full  of  cramps  aiul  rlieu- 
matism,  ami  colil  internally,  so  that  fire  don't 
warm  him."  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  state 
that  the  period  of  entire  abstinence  was  very 
transient. 

A  quarterly  magazine,  called  "  The  Reflect- 
or,"  was  published  in  the  autumn  of  iSio, 
and  contained  Essays  by  Charles  Lamb  and 
several  other  writers.  Amongst  these  are 
some  of  the  best  of  Lamb's  earlier  writings  — 
namely,  the  paper  on  Hogarth  and  that  on 
the  Tragedies  of  Sliakcspcare.  It  is  singular 
that  these  two  Essa\  s,  wiiieh  are  as  fine  as 
anything  of  a  similar  nature  in  English  criti- 
cism, should  have  been  almost  uimoticed  (un- 
discovered, excejit  bv  literar\-  fiiends)  until  the 
3ear  iSiS,  when  Lamb's  works  Avere  collected 
and  published.  Tlie  grand  passage  on  "  Lear" 
has  caused  the  Essay  on  the  Shakespeare  Tra- 
gctlies     to     be    well     known.       Less    known    is 


HOGARTH  AND  REYNOLDS.  131 

the  Essay  on  Hogarth,  although  it  is  more 
elaborate  and  critical ;  the  labor  being  quite 
necessary  in  this  case,  as  the  pretensions  of 
Hogarth  to  the  grand  style  had  been 
denounced    by    Sir  Joshua    Reynolds. 

In  affluence  of  genius,  in  variety  and  exu- 
berance of  thought,  there  surely  can  exist 
little  comparison  between  Reynolds  and  Ho- 
garth. Reynolds  was,  indeed,  the  finest  painter, 
especially  the  most  superb  colorist,  of  the  Eng- 
lish school.  But  Hogarth  was  the  greatest 
inventor,  —  the  greatest  discoverer  of  character, 
—  in  the  English  or  any  other  school.  As  a 
painter  of  manners  he  is  unapproached.  In  a 
kindred  walk,  he  traversed  all  the  passions 
from  the  lowest  mirth  to  the  profoundest  mel- 
ancholy, possessing  the  tragic  element  in  the 
most  eminent  degree.  And  if  grandeur  can 
exist  —  as  I  presume  it  can  —  in  beings  who 
have  neither  costume  nor  rank  to  set  off  their 
qualities,  then  some  of  the  characters  of  Ho- 
garth in  essential  grandeur  are  far  beyond  the 


13^  IIOHAirril   AM)   liEYNOLDS. 

coiivcnlional  figures  of  many  other  artists. 
Pain,  and  jo}-,  and  j^overty,  and  human  daring 
are  not  to  be  circumscribed  by  dress  and  fash- 
ion. Their  seat  is  deeper  (in  the  soul),  and 
is  altogether  independent  of  such  trivial  accre- 
tions. In  point  of  expression,  I  never  saw 
the  face  of  the  madman  (in  the  "  Rake's 
Progress")  exceeded  in  any  picture,  ancient 
or  modern.  "  It  is  a  face "  (Lamb  says) 
"  that  no  one  that  has  seen  can  easily  forget." 
It  is,  as  he  argues,  human  sull'ering  stretched 
to  its  utmost  cndinance.  I  cannot  forbear 
directing  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  Lamb's 
bold  and  excellent  defence  of  Hogarth.  He 
will  like  both  painter  and  author,  I  think, 
better  than  before.  I  have,  indeed,  been  in 
company  where  young  men,  professing  to  be 
painters,  spoke  slightingly  of  Hogarth.  To 
this  I  might  have  replied  that  Hogarth  did  not 
jxiint  for  the  apjjlause  of  tyros  in  art,  but  — 
for  the  world  ! 

The    "  Reflector "    was    edited     by    an    old 


LEIGH  HUNT.  133 

Christ's  Hospital  boy,  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  who 
subsequently  became,  and  during  their  joint 
lives  remained,  one  of  Lamb's  most  familiar 
friends.  It  was  a  quarterly  magazine,  and  re- 
ceived, of  course,  the  contributions  of  various 
writers  ;  amongst  whom  were  Mr.  Barnes  (of 
the  "Times"),  Barron  Field,  Dr.  Aikin,  Mr. 
Landseer  (the  elder),  Charles  Lamb,  Octavius 
Gilchrist,  Mitchell  (the  translator  of  Aristoph- 
anes), and  Leigh  Hunt  himself.  I  do  not 
observe  Lamb's  name  appended  to  any  of  the 
articles  in  the  first  volume ;  but  the  second 
comprises  the  Essays  on  Hogarth  and  on 
Burial  Societies,  together  with  a  paper  on  the 
Custom  of  Hissing  at  the  Theatres,  under  the 
signature  of  "  Semel  Damnatus."  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  humor  in  this  paper  (which  has 
not  been  republished,  I  believe).  It  professes 
to  come  from  one  of  a  club  of  condemned 
authors,  no  person  being  admissible  as  a  mem- 
ber until  he  had  been  unequivocally  damned. 
I  observe  that  in  the  letters,   &c.,  of  Lamb, 


134  LAMB,   JIA/LITT,   AXD   HUNT. 

which  were  published  in  1S41,  and  copiously 
commented  on  by  Sir  Thomas  N.  Talfourd 
(the  editor),  there  is  not  much  beyond'  a  bare 
menti(jn  of  Lcij^h  Hunt's  name,  and  no  letter 
from  Charles  Lamb  to  Mr.  Hunt  is  published. 
It  is  now  too  late  to  remedy  this  last  defect, 
my  recent  endeavors  to  obtain  such  letters 
having  resulted  in  disappointment :  otherwise 
I  should  have  l)een  very  glad  to  record  the 
extent  of  Lamb's  liking  for  a  poor  and  able 
man,  whoni  I  knew  well  for  at  least  forty 
years.  I  know  that  at  one  time  Lamb  valued 
him,  and  that  he  always  thought  highly  of  his 
intellect,  as  indeed  he  has  testified  in  his 
famous  remonstrance  to  Southey.  And  in  Mr. 
Hunt's  autobiograpliy  I  ihid  abundant  e\  idencc 
of  his  admiration  for  Lamb,  in  a  generous 
eulogy  upon  him. 

Charles  Lamb,  William  Hazlitt,  and  Leigh 
Hunt,  formed  a  remarkable  trio  of  men,  each 
of  whom  was  decidedly  dilTerent  from  the 
others.     Only  one  of  them  (Hunt)  cared  much 


LAMB,  EAZLITT,  AND  HUNT.         135 

for  praise.  Hazlitt's  sole  ambition  was  to  sell 
his  essays,  which  he  rated  scarcely  beyond 
their  marketable  value  ;  and  Lamb  saw  enough 
of  the  manner  in  which  praise  and  censure 
were  at  that  time  distributed,  to  place  any 
high  value  on  immediate  success.  Of  posterity 
neither  of  them  thought.  Leigh  Hunt,  from 
temperament,  was  more  alive  to  pleasant  in- 
fluences (sunshine,  freedom  for  work,  rural 
walks,  complimentary  words)  than  the  others. 
Hazlitt  cared  little  for  these  things ;  a  fierce 
argument  or  a  well-contested  game  at  rackets 
was  more  to  his  taste ;  whilst  Lamb's  pleasures 
(except,  perhaps,  from  his  pipe)  lay  amongst 
the  books  of  the  old  English  writers.  His  soul 
delighted  in  communion  with  ancient  genera- 
tions, more  especially  with  men  who  had 
been  unjustly  forgotten.  Hazlitt's  mind  at- 
tached itself  to  abstract  subjects  ;  Lamb's  was 
more  practical,  and  embraced  men.  Hunt 
was  somewhat  indifferent  to  persons  as  well 
as    to    things,    except    in  the    cases    of    Shelley 


136  LAMB,   HAZLITT,   AND  HUNT. 

and  Keats,  and  his  own  family  ;  yet  he  liked 
poetry  and  poetical  subjects.  Ila/.litt  (who 
was  ordinarily  very  shy)  was  the  best  talker 
of  the  three.  Lamb  said  the  most  pithy  and 
brilliant  things.  Hunt  displayed  the  most  inj^e- 
nuity.  All  three  sympathized  often  a\  ith  the 
same  persons  or  the  same  books ;  and  this, 
no  doubt,  cemented  the  intimacy  that  existed 
between  them  for  so  many  years.  Moreover, 
each  of  them  luulcrstood  the  others,  and 
placed  just  value  on  their  objections  when 
any  diflbrence  of  opinion  (not  infiecjuent)  arose 
between  them.  Without  being  debaters,  they 
were  accomplished  talkers.  They  did  not 
argue  for  the  sake  of  concjuest,  but  to  strip 
ofl'  the  mists  and  perplexities  which  sometimes 
obscure  truth.  Tiiese  men — who  li\cd  long 
ago  —  had  a  great  share  of  my  regard.  They 
were  all  slandered,  chiefly  by  nun  who  knew 
little  of  them,  and  nothing  of  their  good  (lual- 
ities  ;  or  by  men  who  saw  them  only  through 
the    mist     of    political     or     religious     animosity. 


LA3fB,  EAZLITT,  AND  HUNT.         137 

Perhaps  it  was  partly  for  this  reason  that  they 
came  nearer  to  my  heart. 

All  the  three  men,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt, 
were  throughout  their  lives  Unitarians,  as  was 
also  George  Dyer ;  Coleridge  was  a  Unitarian 
preacher  in  his  youth,  having  seceded  from 
the  Church  of  England ;  to  which,  however, 
he  returned,  and  was  in  his  latter  years  a 
strenuous  supporter  of  the  national  faith. 
George  Dyer  once  sent  a  pamphlet  to  convert 
Charles  to  Unitarianism.  "  Dear  blundering 
soul"  (Lamb  said),  "why,  I  am  as  old  a  One 
Goddite  as  himself."  To  Southey  Lamb 
writes,  "  Being,  as  you  know,  -not  quite  a 
Churchman,  I  felt  a  jealousy  at  the  Church 
taking  to  herself  the  whole  deserts  of  Chris- 
tianity." Llis  great,  and  indeed  infinite  rev- 
erence, nevertheless,  for  Christ  is  shown  in 
his  own  Christian  virtues  and  in  constant  ex- 
pressions of  reverence.  In  Hazlitt's  paper  of 
"  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen," 
Lamb   is  made  to   refer  to  Jesus   Christ    as  he 


138  MARY  LAMB'S  ILLNESSES. 

"  who  once  put  on  a  semblance  of  mortality," 
and  to  say,  "  If  he  were  to  come  into  the 
room,  we  sliould  all  fall  down  and  kiss  the 
hem  of  his  garment."  I  do  not  venture  to 
comment  on  tliesc  delicate  matters,  ^vhere 
men  like  Ilazlitt,  and  Lamb,  and  Coleridge 
(the  latter  for  a  short  time  only)  have  enter- 
tained opinions  which  diiVer  from  those  of  the 
generality  of  their  countrymen. 

During  these  years,  Mary  Lamb's  illnesses 
were  fre([uent,  as  usual.  Her  relapses  were 
not  dependent  on  the  seasons ;  they  came  in 
hot  summers  and  with  the  freezing  winters. 
The  onlv  remedy  seems  to  have  been  extreme 
quiet  when  any  slight  symptom  of  uneasiness 
was  apparent.  Charles  (poor  fellow)  had  to 
live,  day  and  night,  in  the  society  of  a  person 
who  was  —  mad  !  If  any  exciting  talk  occurred, 
he  had  to  dismiss  his  friend  with  a  whisper. 
If  anv  stupor  or  extraordinary  silence  was  ob- 
served, then  he  had  to  rouse  her  instantly.  lie 
has  been   seen    to    take    tiie    kettle   from   the   lire 


THEATRICAL  ACQUAINTANCES.        139 

and  place  it  for  a  moment  on  her  head-dress, 
in  order  to  startle  her  into  recollection.  He 
lived  in  a  state  of  constant  anxiety  ;  —  and  there 
was  no  help. 

Not  to  neglect  Charles  Lamb's  migrations,  it 
should  be  noted  that  he  moved  his  residence 
from  Inner  Temple  Lane  (*■'  where  he  meant  to 
live  and  die  ")  into  Russell  Street,  Covent  Gar- 
den, in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1S17.  When 
there,  he  became  personally  acquainted  with 
several  members  of  the  theatrical  profession ; 
amongst  others,  with  Munden  and  Miss  Kelly, 
for  both  of  whom  he  entertained  the  highest 
admiration.  One  of  the  (Elia)  Essays  is  written 
to  celebrate  Munden's  histrionic  talent ;  and  in 
his  letters  he  speaks  of  "  Fanny  Kelly's  divine 
plain  face."  The  Barbara  S.  of  the  second  (or 
last)  series  of  essays  is,  in  fact.  Miss  Kelly  her- 
self. All  his  friends  knew  that  he  was  greatly 
attached  to  her. 

He  also  became  acquainted  with  Miss  Burrell 
—  afterwards  Mrs.  Gould  —  but  who,  he  says, 


140     riiEArniCAL  acquaintances. 

"  remained  uncoined."  Subsequently  he  was 
introduced  to  Liston  and  Elliston,  each  of  whom 
received  tokens  of  his  HUing.  Tlie  ilrst  was  the 
subject  of  an  amusinjj^  liclitious  biography.  In 
Laml)'s  words,  it  was  "•  a  lying  life  of  Liston," 
uncontaminated  by  a  particle  of  truth.  ?klun- 
den,  he  says,  had  faces  innumerable ;  Liston 
had  only  one ;  "  but  what  a  face ! "  he  adds, 
admitting  it  to  be  beyond  all  vain  description. 
Perhaps  this  subject  of  universal  laughter  and 
admiration  never  received  such  a  compliment, 
except  from  Hazlitt,  who,  after  conuiienting  on 
Hogarth's  excellences,  his  inventi()n,  his  charac- 
ter, his  satire,  &c.,  concludes  by  saying,  "  I  have 
never  seen  anything  in  the  cxpr4;ssion  of  comic 
liunior  equal  to  Hogarth's  humor,  except  Lis- 
ton's  face." 

In  tile  course  of  time,  orticial  labor  becomes 
tiresome,  and  the  India  House  clerk  grows 
splenetic.  He  complains  sadly  of  his  work. 
Even  the  incursions  of  his  familiars  annoy 
him,   although    it   annoys   him  more  when  they 


WORKS  PUBLISHED.  141 

go  away.  In  the  midst  of  this  trouble  his  works 
are  collected  and  published ;  and  he  emerges 
at  once  from  the  obscure  shades  of  Leadenhall 
Street  into  the  full  blaze  of  public  notice.  He 
wakes  from  dullness  and  discontent,  and  "  finds 
himself  famous." 


(   H2  ) 


ciiapti:r   v. 

ATy  Recollections.  —  Russell  Street.  —  Person- 
al Appearance.  —  Manner.  —  Tendency  of 
Mind.  —  Prejudices.  —  Alleged  Excesses.  — 
Mode  of  Life.  —  Love  of  Smoking.  —  I  lis 
Lodgings.  —  Llis  Sister.  —  Costume.  —  Read- 
ing aloud.  —  Tastes  and  Opinions.  —  L^on- 
don.  —  Love  of  Rooks.  —  Charity.  —  \\  'ednes- 
day  Parties.  —  I  lis  Companions.  —  Rlpitaph 
upo7i  them. 

IX  tlic  year  1S17  or  iSiS  I  first  became  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  Charles  Lamb. 
This  was  about  the  time  of  his  removal  from 
the  Temple.  It  was  in  the  course  of  the  year 
iSiS  that  his  works  liad  l)Lcn  fust  collected  and 
jiublished.  They  came  upon  the  world  by  sur- 
prise ;  scarcely  any  one  at  that  lime  beiuLJ  aware 
that  a  tine  genius  and  humorist  existed,  within 
the  dull  shades  of  London,  whose  quality  very 
few  of  the  critics  had  assayed,  and  none  of  tlicm 


PERSONAL   APPEARANCE.  143 

had  commended.  He  was  thus  thrown  (waif- 
like) amongst  the  great  body  of  the  people  ;  was 
at  once  estimated,  and  soon  rose  into  renown. 

Persons  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  travers- 
ing Covent  Garden  at  that  time  (seven  and 
forty  years  ago)  might,  by  extending  their  walk 
a  few  yards  into  Russell  Street,  have  noted  a 
small,  spare  man,  clothed  in  black,  who  went 
out  every  morning  and  returned  every  afternoon, 
as  regularly  as  the  hands  of  the  clock  moved 
towards  certain  hours.  You  could  not  mistake 
him.  He  was  somewhat  stift'  in  his  manner, 
and  almost  clerical  in  dress ;  which  indicated 
much  wear.  He  had  a  long,  melancholy  face, 
with  keen,  penetrating  eyes ;  and  he  walked, 
with  a  short,  resolute  step,  city-wards.  He 
looked  no  one  in  the  face  for  more  than  a  mo- 
ment, yet  contrived  to  see  everything  as  he  went 
on.  No  one  who  ever  studied  the  human  features 
could  pass  him  by  without  recollecting  his  coun- 
tenance :  it  was  full  of  sensibility,  and  it  came 
upon  you  like   a  new  thought,  which  you  could 


I4.f  PEliSONAL   AI'I'J'JABANCE. 

not  help  dwelling  upon  afterwardb  ;  it  gave  rise 
to  meditation,  and  ilid  you  good.  This  small, 
half-clerical   man  was  —  Charles  Lamb. 

I  had  known  him  for  a  short  time  previ- 
ously to  i8iS,  having  been  introduced  to  him 
at  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  house,  where  I  enjoyed 
his  comj^any  once  or  twice  over  agreeable 
suppers;  but  I  knew  him  slightly  only,  and  did 
not  see  much  of  him  until  he  and  his  sister 
\vent  to  occupy  the  lodgings  in  Russell  Street, 
where  he  invited  me  to  come  and  see  him. 
They  lived  in  the  corner  house  adjoining  Bow 
Street.  This  house  belonged,  at  that  time,  to 
an  ironmonger  (or  brazier),  and  was  comfort- 
able and  clean,  —  and  a  little  noisy. 

Charles  Lamb  was  about  forty  years  of  age 
when  I  hrst  saw  him  ;  and  I  knew  him  inti- 
mately for  the  greater  part  of  twenty  years. 
Small  and  spare  in  person,  and  with  small 
legs  ("immaterial  legs"  Ilood  called  them), 
he  had  a  dark  complexion,  dark,  curling  hair, 
almost  bhick,  and   a  grave  look,  lightening  up 


PERSONAL  APrEARANGE.  145 

occasionally,  and  capable  of  sudden  merriment. 
His  laugh  was  seldom  excited  by  jokes  merely 
ludicrous  ;  it  was  never  spiteful ;   and  his  quiet 
smile  was  sometimes  inexpressibly  sweet :  per- 
haps it  had  a  touch  of  sadness  in  it.     His  mouth 
was  well  shaped  ;  his  lip  tremulous  with  expres- 
sion ;  his  brown  eyes  were  quick,  restless,  and 
glittering ;    and  he  had  a  grand  head,  full   of 
thought.     Leigh    Hunt   said    that    "he  ^had    a 
head  worthy  of  Aristotle."     Hazlitt  calls  it  "  a 
fine   Titian   head,  full  of  dumb   eloquence."     I 
knew  that,  before   he  had  attained  the  age  of 
twenty  years,  he  had  to   make  his  way  in  the 
world,  and  that  his  lines  had  not  been  cast  in 
pleasant  places.     I  had  heard,  indeed,  that  his 
family  had  at  one  time  consisted  of  a  father  and 
mother  and  an  insane  sister ;   all  helpless  and 
poor,  and  all  huddled  togetlier  in  a  small  lodg- 
ing,  scarcely    large    enough    to    admit   of  their 
moving  about  without  restraint.     It  is  difficult 
to  imagine  a  more  disheartening  youth.     Never- 
theless,  out  of  this  desert,  in  which   no  hope 
10 


146  MANNEB. 

was  visible,  he  rose  up  eventually  a  cheerful  man 
(cheerful  when  his  da}  s  were  not  clouded  by  his 
sister's  illness)  ;  a  charmini^  companion,  full  of 
pleasant  and  gentle  fancies,  and  the  linest  hu- 
morist of  his  age. 

Altliough  sometimes  strange  in  manner,  he 
was  thoroughly  unafTectcd ;  in  serious  matters 
thoroughly  sincere.  He  was,  indeed  (as  he 
confesses),  terriljly  shy  ;  diffident,  not  awkward 
in  manner  ;  with  occasionally  nervous,  twitch- 
ing motions  that  betrayed  this  infirmity.  He 
dreaded  the  criticisms  of  servants  far  more 
than  the  observations  of  their  masters.  To 
undergo  the  scrutiny  of  the  first,  as  he  said  to 
me,  when  we  were  going  to  breakfast  with 
Mr.  Rogers  one  morning,  was  "  terrible."  His 
speech  was  brief  and  pithy  ;  n<jt  too  often  hu- 
morous ;  never  sententious  nor  didactic.  Al- 
though he  sometimes  talked  whilst  walking  up 
and  down  the  room  (at  which  time  he  seldom 
looked  at  the  person  with  whom  he  was  talk- 
ing), he  very  often  spoke  as  if  impelled  by  the 


TENDENCY  OF  MIND.  i^7 

necessity  of  speaking  —  suddenly,  precipitately. 
If  he  could  have  spoken  very  easily,  he  might 
possibly  have  uttered  long  sentences,  exposi- 
tions, or  orations  ;  such  as  some  of  his  friends 
indulged  in,  to  the  utter  confusion  of  their 
hearers. 

But  he  knew  the  value  of  silence ;  and  he 
knew  that  even  truth  may  be  damaged  by  too 
many  words.  When  he  did  speak,  his  words 
had  a  flavor  in  them  beyond  any  that  I  have 
heard  elsewhere.  His  conversation  dwelt  upon 
persons  or  things  within  his  own  recollection, 
or  it  opened  (with  a  startling  doubt,  or  a  ques- 
tion, or  a  piece  of  quaint  humor)  the  great  circle 
of  thought. 

In  temper  he  was  quick,  but  easily  appeased. 
He  never  affected  that  exemption  from  sensi- 
bility which  has  sometimes  been  mistaken  for 
philosophy,  and  has  conferred  reputation  upon 
little  men.  In  a  word,  he  exhibited  his  emo- 
tions in  a  fine,  simple,  natural  manner.  Con- 
trary to  the  usual  habits  of  wits,  no    retort   oi 


148  PREJUDICES. 

reply  by  Lamb,  however  smart  in  character, 
ever  gave  pain.  It  is  clear  that  ill  nature  is 
not  wit,  and  tliat  there  may  be  sparkling 
flowers  which  are  not  surrounded  by  thorns. 
Lamb's  dissent  was  very  intelligible,  but  never 
superfluously  demonstrative  ;  often,  indeed,  ex- 
pressed by  his  countenance  only ;  sometimes 
merely   by   silence. 

He  was  more  pleasant  to  some  persons 
(more  pleasant,  I  confess,  to  mc)  for  tlie  few 
faults  or  weaknesses  that  he  had.  lie  did 
not  daunt  us,  nor  throw  us  to  a  distance,  by 
his  formidable  virtues.  We  sympathized  with 
him;  and  this  sympathy,  which  is  a  union 
between  two  similitudes,  does  not  exist  between 
perfect  and  imperfect  natures.  Like  all  of  us,  he 
hail  a  few  prejudices:  he  did  not  like  French- 
men ;  he  shrunk  frtjm  Scotchmen  (excepting, 
iiowever.  Burns);  he  disliked  bankrupts;  he 
hated  close  bargainers.  For  the  Jewish  nation 
lie  entertained  a  mvsterious  awe  :  the  Jewesses 
he  admired,  with   trembling:     "Jael    had  those 


.ALLEGED  EXCESSES.  149- 

full,  dark,  inscrutable  eyes,"  he  says.  Of  Bra- 
ham's  triumphant  singing  he  repeatedly  spoke  ; 
there  had  been  nothing  like  it  in  his  recollec- 
tion :  he  considered  him  equal  to  Mrs.  Siddons. 
In  his  letters  he  characterizes  him  as  "  a 
inixture  of  the  Jew,  the  gentleman,  and  the 
angel."  He  liked  chimney-sweepers  —  the 
young  ones  —  the  "innocent  blacknesses;"  and 
with  beggars  he  had  a  strong  sympathy.  He 
always  spoke  tenderly  of  them,  and  has  writ- 
ten upon  them  an  essay  full  of  beauty.  Do  not 
be  frightened  (he  says)  at  the  hard  words,  im- 
posture, &c.  "  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters : 
some  have  unawares  entertained  angels." 

Much  injustice  has  been  done  to  Lamb  by 
accusing  him  of  excess  in  drinking.  The 
truth  is,  that  a  small  quantity  of  any  strong 
liquid  (wine,  &c.)  disturbed  his  speech,  which 
at  best  was  but  an  eloquent  stammer.  The 
distresses  of  his  early  life  made  him  ready  to 
resort  to  any  remedy  which  brought  forgetful- 
ness  ;  and  he  himself,  frail  in  body  and  excitable, 

■  G 


150  MODE   OF  LIFE.      . 

was  veiy  speedily  affected.  During  all  my  inti- 
macy with  him,  I  never  knew  him  drink  im- 
moderately ;  except  once,  when,  having  been 
prevailed  upon  to  abstain  altogether  from  wine 
and  spirits,  he  resented  the  vow  thus  forced 
upon  him  by  imbibing  an  extraordinary  quan- 
tity of  the  "  spurious "  liquid.  When  he  says, 
"  The  waters  have  gone  over  me,"  he  speaks 
in  metaphor,  not  liistorically.  lie  was  never 
vanquished  by  water,  and  seldom  by  wine. 
Ilis  energy,  or  mental  power,  was  indeed  sub- 
ject to  fluctuation ;  no  excessive  merriment, 
perhaps,  but  much  depression.  "  My  waking 
life,"  he  writes,  "  has  much  of  the  confusion, 
the  trouble,  and  obscure  perplexity  of  an  ill 
dream.  In  tlie  daytime  I  stumble  upon  dark 
mountains." 

Lamb's  mode  of  life  was  temperate,  his  din- 
ner consisting  of  meat,  with  vegetables  and 
bread  only.  "  We  have  a  sure  hot  joint  on  Sun- 
days," he  writes,  "and  when  had  we  better?" 
He   appears   to    have    had    a   relish    for   game, 


MODE   OF  LIFE.  15 1 

roast  pig,  and  brawn,  &c.,  roast  pig  espe- 
ciall}',  when  given  to  him ;  but  his  poverty 
first,  and  afterwards  his  economical  habits, 
prevented  his  indulging  in  such  costly  luxu- 
ries. He  was  himself  a  small  and  delicate 
eater  at  all  times ;  and  he  entertained  some- 
thing like  aversion  towards  great  feeders. 
During  a  long  portion  of  his  life,  his  means 
were  much  straitened.  The  reader  may  note 
his  want  of  money  in  several  of  his  letters. 
Speaking  of  a  play,  he  says,  "  I  am  quite 
aground  for  a  plan  ;  and  /  imcst  do  so77iething 
J^or  money." 

He  was  restless  and  fond  of  walking..  I  do 
not  think  that  he  could  ride  on  horseback ; 
but  he  could  walk  during  all  the  day.  He 
had,  in  that  manner,  traversed  the  whole  of 
London  and  its  suburbs  (especially  the  north- 
ern and  north-eastern  parts)  frequently.  "  I 
cannot  sit  and  think,"  he  said.  Tired  with 
exercise,  he  went  to  bed  early,  except  when 
friends  supped  with  him ;    and  he  always  rose 


152  LOVE   OF  SMOKING. 

early,  from  necessity,  bcin;^'  ol)ligcd  to  attend 
at  his  office,  in  Lcadenliall  Street,  every  day, 
from  ten  until  four  o'clock  —  sometimes  later. 
It  was  there  tliat  liis  familiar  letters  were 
written.  On  his  return,  after  a  humble  meal, 
he  strolled  (if  it  was  summer)  into  the  suburbs, 
or  traversed  the  streets  where  the  old  book- 
shops were  to  be  found.  lie  seldom  or  never 
gave  dinners.  You  were  admitted  at  all  times 
to  his  plain  supper,  which  was  sufficiently 
good  when  any  visitor  came  ;  at  other  times, 
it  was  spare.  "We  have  fried  to  eat  sup- 
pers," Miss  Lamb  writes  to  Mrs.  Ilazlitt, 
"  but  we  left  our  appetites  behind  us ;  and 
the  dry  loaf,  which  offended  you,  now  comes 
in  at  night  unaccompanied."  You  were  sure 
of  a  welcome  at  his  house  ;  sure  of  easy,  un- 
fettered talk.  After  supper  you  might  smoke 
a  pipe  with  yf)ur  host,  or  gossip  (ui^on  any 
subject)    with   him   or   his   sensible  sister. 

Perhaps    the    pipe    was    the    only    thing     in 
which  Lamb   really  exceeded.      He   was   fond 


LOVE   OF  TOBACCO.  153 

of  it  from  the  very  early  years  when  he  was 
accustomed  to  smoke  "  Orinooko "  at  the 
"  Sahitation  and  Cat,"  with  Coleridge,  in 
1796.  He  attempted  on  several  occasions  to 
give  it  up,  but  his  struggles  were  overcome 
by  counter  influences.  "  Tobacco,"  he  says, 
"stood  in  its  own  light."  At  last,  in  1S05,  he 
was  able  to  conquer  and  abandon  it  —  for  a 
time.  His  success,  like  desertion  from  a 
friend,  caused  some  remorse  and  a  great  deal 
of  regret.  In  writing  to  Coleridge  about  his 
house,  which  was  "  smoky,"  he  inquires, 
"Have  you  cured  it?  It  is  hard  to  cure  any- 
thing of  smoking."  Apart  from  the  mere 
pleasure  of  smoking,  the  narcotic  soothed  his 
nerves  and  controlled  those  perpetual  appre- 
hensions which  his  sister's  frequent  illnesses 
excited.  Of  Mary  Lamb,  Hazlitt  has  said 
(somewhere)  that  she  was  the  most  rational 
and  wisest  woman  whom  he  had  ever  known. 
Lamb  and  his  sister  had  an  open  party  once 
a  week,  every  Wednesday   evening,  when   his 


154  J^^^  KwaiNQS. 

friends  gCMicrally  \vciit  to  visit  him,  without 
any  special  invitation.  He  invited  you  sud- 
denly, not  pressin<^dy ;  Init  witli  such  liearti- 
ncss  that  you  at  once  agreed  to  come.  There 
was  usually  a  game  at  whist  on  these  even- 
ings, in  which  the  stakes  were  very  moder- 
ate, indeed  almost   nominal. 

When  my  thoughts  turn  backward,  as 
they  sometimes  do,  to  these  past  days,  I  see 
my  dear  old  friend  again,  — ''  in  mv  mind's 
eye,  Horatio,"  —  with  his  outstretched  hand, 
and  his  grave,  sweet  smile  of  welcome.  It 
was  always  in  a  room  of  moderate  size,  com- 
fortably but  plainly  furnished,  that  he  lived. 
An  old  mahogany  table  was  opened  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  roimd  which,  and  near 
the  walls,  were  old,  higli-backed  chairs  (such 
as  our  grandfathers  used),  and  a  long,  ])lain 
bookcase  completely  fdled  with  old  books. 
These  were  his  "ragged  veterans."  In  f)ne 
of  his  letters  he  says,  "  My  rooms  are  luxuri- 
ous,   one    for   prints,   and    one    for    books ;    a 


HIS   SIS  TEE.  155 

summer  and  winter  parlor."  They,  however, 
were  not  otherwise  decorated.  I  do  not  re- 
member ever  to  have  seen  a  flower  or  an 
image  in  them.  He  had  not  been  educated 
into  expensive  tastes.  His  extravagances  were 
confined  to  books,  Tliese  were  all  chosen 
by  himself,  all  old,  and  all  in  "  admired  dis- 
order ; "  yet  he  could  lay  his  hand  on  any 
volume  in  a  moment.  "  You  never  saw,"  he 
writes,  "  a  bookcase  in  more  true  harmony 
with  the  contents  than  what  I  have  nailed  up 
in  my  room.  Though  new,  it  has  more  apti- 
tude for  growing  old  than  you  shall  often  see  ; 
as  one  sometimes  gets  a  friend  in  the  middle 
of  life  who  becomes  an  old  friend  in  a  short 
time." 

Here  Charles  Lamb  sate,  when  at  home, 
always  near  the  table.  At  the  opposite  side 
was  his  sister,  engaged  in  some  domestic 
work,  knitting  or  sewing,  or  poring  over  a 
modern  novel.  "  Bridget  in  some  things  is 
behind  her  years."     In  fact,  although   she  was 


156  HIS   SISTER. 

ten  years  older  than  her  brother,  she  had 
more  sympatliy  with  modern  books  and  with 
youthful  fancies  than  he  had.  She  wore  a 
neat  cap,  of  the  fashion  of  her  youth  ;  an 
old-fashioned  dress.  Her  face  was  pale  and 
somewhat  square,  but  very  placid,  with  gray, 
intelligent  eyes.  She  was  very  mild  in  her 
manner  to  strangers,  and  to  her  brother  gen- 
tle and  tender  always.  She  had  often  an 
upward  look,  of  peculiar  meaning,  when  di- 
rected towards  him,  as  though  to  give  him 
assurance  that  all  was  then  well  with  her. 
His  affection  for  her  was  somewhat  less  on 
the  surface,  but  always  present.  There  was 
great  gratitude  intermingled  with  it.  '•  In  the 
days  of  weakling  infancy,"  he  writes,  "  I  was 
her  tender  charge,  as  I  have  l)een  her  care 
in  foolish  manlujcnl  since."  Then  he  adds, 
patjjetically,  "■  I  wish  I  could  throw  into  a 
heap  the  remainder  of  our  joint  existences, 
that  wc  might  share  them  in  equal  di- 
vision." 


COSTUME.  157 

Lamb  himself  was  always  dressed  in  black. 
"  I  take  it,"  he  says,  "  to  be  the  proper  cos- 
tume of  an  author."  When  this  was  once 
objected  to,  at  a  wedding,  he  pleaded  the 
raven's  apology  in  the  fable,  that  "  he  had  no 
other."  His  clothes  were  entirely  black ;  and 
he  wore  long  black  gaiters,  up  to  the  knees. 
His  head  was  bent  a  little  forward,  like  one 
who  had  been  reading ;  and,  if  not  standing 
or  walking,  he  generally  had  in  his  hand 
an  old  book,  a  pinch  of  snuff,  or,  later  in 
the  e^'ening,  a  pipe.  He  stammei"ed  a  little, 
pleasantly,  just  enough  to  prevent  his  making 
speeches ;  just  enough  to  make  you  listen 
eagerly  for  his  words,  always  full  of  meaning, 
or  charged  with  a  jest ;  or  referring  (but  this 
was  rare)  to  some  line  or  passage  from  one 
of  the  old  Elizabethan  writers,  which  was 
always  ushered  in  with  a  smile  of  tender  rev- 
erence. When  he  read  aloud  it  was  with  a 
slight  tone,  which  I  used  to  think  he  had 
caught  from  Coleridge ;    Coleridge's   recitation, 

G* 


1 58  READINO  ALOUD. 

however,  rising  to  a  cliant.  Lamb's  reading 
was  not  generally  in  books  of  verse,  but  in 
the  oUl  lay  writers,  whose  tendency  was  to- 
wards religious  thoughts.  lie  liked,  however, 
religious  verse.  "  I  can  read,"  he  writes  to 
Bernard  Barton,  *'  the  homely  old  version  of 
the  Psalms  in  our  prayer-books,  for  an  hour 
or  two,  without  sense  of  weariness."  lie 
avoided  manuscri^Dts  as  much  as  practicable : 
"  all  things  read  raw  to  me  in  manuscript." 
Lamb  wrcjte  much,  including  many  letters; 
but  his  hands  were  wanting  in  pliancy  .("  in- 
veterate clumsiness"  are  his  words),  and  his  , 
handwriting  was  therefore  never  good.  It  was 
neither  text  nor  running  hand,  and  the  letters 
did  not  indicate  an)'  fluency ;  it  was  not  the 
handwriting  of  an  old  man  nor  of  a  young 
man;  yet  it  had  a  very  peculiar  character  — 
stitV,  resolute,  distinct ;  ([uite  ludikc  all  others 
that  I  have  seen,  and  easily  distinguishable 
amongst  if  thousand. 

No    one    has    described    Lamb's    maimer   or 


SENSIBILITY.  159 

merits  so  well  as  Hazlitt :  "  He  always  made 
the  best  pun  and  the  best  remark  in  the  course 
of  the  evening.  His  serious  conversation,  like 
his  serious  writing,  is  his  best.  No  one  ever 
stammered  out  such  fine  piquant,  deep,  elo- 
quent' things,  in  half  a  dozen  sentences,  as  he 
does.  His  jests  scald  like  tears ;  and  he  probes 
a  question  with  a  play  upon  words.  There 
was  no  fuss  or  cant  about  him.  He  has  fur- 
nished many  a  text  for  Coleridge  to  preach 
upon."  (/.  Plain  Speaker.)  Charles  was 
frequently  merry ;  but  ever,  at  the  back  of 
his  merriment,  there  reposed  a  grave  depth, 
in  which  rich  colors  and  tender  lights  were 
inlaid.  For  his  jests  sprang  from  his  sensi- 
bility ;  which  was  as  open  to  pleasure  as  to 
pain.  This  sensibility,  if  it  somewhat  impaired 
his  vigor,  led  him  into  curious  and  delicate 
fancies,  and  taught  him  a  liking  for  things  of 
the  highest  relish,  which  a  mere  robust  jester 
never  tastes. 

Large,    sounding    words,    unless    embodying 


i6o  TASTES  AND   OPINIONS. 

great  thoughts  (as  in  the  case  of  Lear),  he 
did  not  treasure  up  or  repeat.  lie  was  an 
admirer  of  what  was  high  and  good,  of  what 
was  delicate  (especially)  ;  but  he  delighted 
most  to  saunter  along  the  humbler  regions, 
where  kindness  of  heart  and  geniality  of  hu- 
mor made  the  way  pleasant.  His  intellect 
was  very  quick,  j^iercing  into  the  recondite 
meaning  of  things  in  a  moment.  Ilis  own 
sentences  were  compressed  and  full  of  mean- 
ing; his  opinions  independent  and  decisive; 
no  qualifying  or  doubting.  Ilis  descriptions 
were  not  highly  colored ;  but,  as  it  were, 
sharply  cut,  like  a  piece  of  marble,  rather 
than  like  a  joicture.  He  liked  and  encouraged 
friendly  discussion ;  but  he  hated  contentious 
argument,  which  leads  to  quarrel  rather  than 
to  truth. 

There  was  an' utter  want  of  parade  in  every- 
thing he  sai<l  and  did,  in  everything  about  him 
and  Ilis  home.  Tlie  only  ornaments  on  his 
walls  were  a  few  engravings  in    black  frames: 


TASTES  AND   OPINIONS.  i6i 

one  after  Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  one  after  Titian  ; 
and  four,  I  think,  by  Hogarth,  about  whom  he 
has  written  so  well.  Images  of  quaint  beauty, 
and  all  gentle,  simple  things  (things  without 
pretension)  pleased  him  to  the  fullest  extent ; 
perhaps  a  little  beyond  their  strict  merit.  I 
have  heard  him  express  admiration  for  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  that  he  did  not  accord  to  Raf- 
faelle.  Raftaelle  was  too  ostentatious  of  mean- 
ing ;  his  merits  were  too  obvious,  —  too  much 
thrust  upon  the  vmderstanding ;  not  retired  nor 
involved,  so  as  to  need  discovery  or  solution. 
He  preferred  even  Titian  (whose  meaning  is 
generally  obvious  enough)  to  Raffaelle ;  but 
Leonardo  was  above  both.  Without  doubt, 
Lamb's  taste  on  several  matters  was  peculiar ; 
for  instance,  there  were  a  few  obsolete  words, 
such  as  arride,  agnize.,  burgeon.,  &c.,  which 
he  fancied,  and  chose  to  rescue  from  oblivion. 
Then  he  did  not  care  for  music.  I  never 
heard  a  song  in  his  house,  nor  any  conversa- 
tion   on    the     subject   of  melody    or    harmony. 


1 62  LONDON. 

'•  I  have  no  car,"  he  says ;  yet  the  sentiment, 
apart  from  the  science  of  music,  gave  liim 
great  pleasure.  lie  reverenced  the  fine  organ 
phiving  of  Mr.  Nijvello,  and  achnired  the  soar- 
ing singing  of  his  daughter,  — "  the  tuneful 
daughter  of  a  tuneful  sire ;  "  but  he  resented 
the  misapplication  of  the  theatres  to  sacred 
music.  He  thought  tliis  a  profanation  of  the 
good  old  original  secular  purposes  of  a  play- 
house. 

As  a  comprehension  of  all  deliglits  he  loved 
London  ;  with  its  l)ustle  and  its  living  throngs 
of  men  and  women ;  its  shops,  its  turns  and 
windings ;  tlie  cries  and  noises  of  trade  and 
life;  beyond  all  other  things.  lie  liked  also 
old  buildings  and  out-of-the-way  places ;  col- 
leges ;  solemn  churchyards,  round  wliich  the 
mmmuring  thousands  floated  unheeding.  In 
particular  he  was  fond  of  visiting,  in  his  short 
vacations,  the  Universities  of  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge. Altlvjugh  (lie  writes)  "Mine  have 
been    anvlliing    but     studious    hours,"    he    pro- 


LOVE   OF  BOOKS.    •  163 

fesses  to  have  received  great  solace  from  those 
"  repositories  of  '  mouldering '  learning."  "  What 
a  place  to  be  in  is  an  old  library  !  "  he  exclaims, 
"  where  the  souls  of  the  old  winters  seem  re- 
posing, as  in  some  dormitory  or  middle  state." 
The  odor  of  the  "  moth-scented  "  coverings  of 
the  old  books  is  "as  fragrant  as  the  blooms 
of  the  tree  of  know^ledge  which  grew  in  the 
happy  orchard." 

An  ancient  manor-house,  that  Vanbrugh 
might  have  built,  dwelt  like  a  picture  in  his 
memory.  "  Nothing  fills  a  child's  mind  like 
an  old  mansion,"  he  says.  Yet  he  could  feel 
unaffectedly  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of  a 
country  life.  The  heartiness  of  country  people 
went  to  his  heart  direct,  and  remained  there 
forever.  The  Fields  and  the  Gladmans,  with 
their  homely  dwellings  and  hospitality,  drew 
him  to  them  like  magnets.  There  was  noth- 
ing too  fiYie  nor  too  lofty  in  these  friends  for 
his  tastes  or  his  affection  ;  they  did  not  "  affront 
him    with    their     light."       His    fancy    always 


164  •  MODESTY. 

stooped  to  moralize  ;  he  hated  the  stiUed  atti- 
tudes and  pieteubions  of  poetasters  and  self- 
{^loiifyiiig  artists. 

He  never  spoke  disparagingly  of  any  person, 
nor  o^erpraised  any  one.  When  it  was  pro- 
posed to  erect  a  statue  of  Chxrkson,  during 
his  life,  he  objected  to  it :  "  We  should  be 
modest,"  he  says,  "  for  a  modest  man."  He 
was  himself  eminently  modest ;  he  never  put 
himself  forward :  he  was  always  sought.  He 
liad  nuich  to  say  on  many  subjects,  and  he 
was  repeatedly  pressed  to  say  this,  before  he 
consented  t(j  do  so.  He  was  almost  teased 
into  writing  the  Elia  Essays.  These  and  all 
his  other  writings  arc  brief  and  to  tiie  point. 
He  did  not  exhale  in  words.  It  was  said  that 
Coleridge's  talk  was  worth  so  many  guineas  a 
sheet.  Charles  Lamb  talked  l)ut  sparingly. 
He  put  I'ortli  only  so  much  as  had  complete 
llavor.  I  know  that  high  pay  and  fre(iuent 
importunity  failed  to  induce  him  to  squander 
his     strength     in     careless     essays :     he    waited 


LETTER   TO   WORDSWORTH.  165 

until  he  could   give   them   their  full    share   of 
meaning  and  humor. 

When  I  speak  of  his  extreme  liking  for 
London,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  was 
insensible  to  great  scenery.  After  his  only 
visit  to  the  Lake  country,  and  beholding  Skid- 
daw,  he  writes  back  to  his  host,  "  O  !  its  fine 
black  head,  and  the  bleak  air  at  the  top  of 
it,  with  a  prospect  of  movmtains  all  about 
making  you  giddy.  It  was  a  day  that  will 
stand  out  like  a  mountain  in  my  life  ; "  adding, 
however,  "  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand  are 
better  places  to  live  in,  for  good  and  all.  I 
could  not  live  in  Skiddaw.  I  could  spend 
there  two  or  three  years ;  but  I  must  have  a 
prospect  of  seeing  Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  or  I  should  mope  and  pine  away." 
He  loved  even  its  smoke,  and  asserted  that  it 
suited  his  vision.  A  short  time  previously  he 
had,  in  a  touching  letter  to  Wordsworth  (1801), 
enumerated  the  objects  that  he  liked  so  much 
in  London.     "  These  things,"  he  writes,  "  work 


1 66  LOVE   OF  noOKS. 

themselves  into  my  mind  :  the  rooms  wlicrc  I 
was  born  ;  a  bookcase  tliat  lias  foHowcd  me 
about  hke  a  faithful  dog  (only  exceeding  \um 
in  knowledge)  wherever  I  have  moved ;  old 
chairs ;  old  tables ;  squares  where  I  have 
sunned  myself;  my  old  school:  these  arc  my 
mistresses.  Have  I  not  enough,  without  your 
mountains?  I  do  not  envy  you;  I  should  pity 
you,  (lid  I  not  know  that  the  mind  will  make 
friends  with  anything." 

Besides  his  native  London,  "  the  centre  of 
busy  interests,"  he  had  great  liking  for  unpre- 
tending men,  who  would  come  and  gossip  with 
him  in  a  friendly,  companionable  way,  or  who 
liked  to  talk  about  old  authors  or  old  books. 
In  liis  love  of  books  he  was  very  catholic. 
"  Shaftesbury  is  not  too  genteel,  nor  jDuathan 
Wild  too  low.  I'ut  for  books  which  are  no 
books,"  such  as  "•  scientific  treatises,  and  the 
histories  of  Hume,  Smollett,  and  Gibbon,"  &c., 
he  confesses  that  he  becomes  splenetic  when 
he  sees  them  jx-rched  up  on  shelves,  "  like  false 


CHARITY.  167 

saints,  who  have  usurped  the  true  shrines"  of 
the  legitimate  occupants.  He  loved  old  books 
and  authors,  indeed,  beyond  most  other  things. 
He  used  to  say  (with  Shakespeare),  "The 
Heavens  themselves  are  old."  He  would  rather 
have  acquired  an  ancient  forgotten  volume  than 
a  modern  one,  at  an  equal  price ;  the  very  cii'- 
cumstance  of  its  having  been  neglected  and  cast 
disdainfully  into  the  refuse  basket  of  a  bookstall 
gave  it  value  in  his  eyes.  He  bought  it,  and 
rejoiced  in  being  able  thus  to  remedy  the  injus- 
tice of  fortune. 

He  liked  best  those  who  had  not  thriven  with 
posterity :  his  reverence  for  Margaret,  Duchess 
of  Newcastle,  can  only  be  explained  in  this  way. 
It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  his  pity  or  gen- 
erosity towards  neglected  authors  extended  also 
to  all  whom  the  goddess  of  Good  Fortune  had 
slighted.  In  this  list  were  included  all  who  had 
suffered  in  purse  or  in  repute.  He  was  ready 
to  defend  man  or  beast,  whenever  unjustly  at- 
tacked.    1  remember  that,  at  one  of  the  monthly 


1 68  CIIMUTY. 

magazine  dinners,  when  John  Wilkes  was  too 
roughly  handled,  Lamb  quoted  the  story  (not 
generally  known)  of  his  replying,  when  the 
blackbirds  were  reported  to  have  stolen  all  his 
cherries,  "Poor  birds,  they  are  welcome."  lie 
•  said  that'  tliose  impulsive  words  showed  the 
inner  nature  of  the  man  more  truly  tlian  all 
his  political  speeches. 

Lamb's  charity  extended  to  all  things.  I 
never  heard  him  speak  spitefully  of  any  author. 
He  thought  that  every  one  should  have  a  clear 
stage,  unobstructed.  His  heart,  young  at  all 
times,  never  grew  hard  or  callous  during  life. 
There  was  always  in  it  a  tender  spot,  which 
Time  was  unable  to  touch.  lie  gave  away 
greatly,  when  the  amount  of  his  means  arc 
taken  into  consideration  ;  he  gave  away  money 
—  even  annuities,  I  believe  —  to  old  impoverished 
friends  whose  wants  Avere  known  to  him.  I 
remember  that  once,  when  we  were  sauntering 
together  on  Pent<;nville  Hill,  and  he  noticed 
great  depression  in  me,  which   he  attributed  to 


CHARITY.  169 

want  of  money,  he  said,  suddenly,  in  his  stam- 
mering way,  "  My  dear  boy,  I  —  I  have  a  quan- 
tity of  useless  things.  I  have  now  —  in  my  desk, 
a  —  a  hundred  pounds  —  that  I  don't  —  don't 
know  what  to  do  with.  Take  it."  I  was  much 
touched  ;  but  I  assured  him  that  my  depression 
did  not  arise  from  want  of  money. 

He  was  very  home-loving ;  he  loved  London 
as  the  best  of  places ;  he  loved  his  home  as  the 
dearest  spot  in  London :  it  was  the  inmost  heart 
of  the  sanctuary.  Whilst  at  home  he  had  no 
curiosity  for  what  passed  beyond  his  own  terri- 
tory. His  eyes  were  never  truant ;  no  one  ever 
saw  him  peering  out  of  window,  examining  the 
crowds  flowing  by ;  no  one  ever  surprised  him 
gazing  on  vacancy.  "  I  lose  myself,"  he  says, 
"  in  other  men's  minds.  When  I  am  not  walk- 
ing I  am  reading  ;  I  cannot  sit  and  think  ;  books 
think  for  me."  If  it  was  not  the  time  for  his 
pipe,  it  was  always  the  time  for  an  old  play, 
or  for  a  talk  with  friends.  In  the  midst  of  this 
society  his   own   mind   grew  green  again   and 


170  II IH   COMPANIONS. 

blossomed;  or,  as  ho  would  have  said,  '' biii- 
geoncd." 

In  the  foregoint^  desultory  account  of  Charles 
Lainl)  1  have,  \vith()ut  (li)ul)t,  set  forth  many 
things  that  arc  frocjuently  held  as  trivial.  Noth- 
ing, however,  seems  to  me  unimportant  wliich 
serves  in  any  way  to  illustrate  a  character. 
The  floating  straws,  it  is  said,  show  from  what 
quarter  the  wind  is  blowing.  So  the  arching 
or  knitting  of  the  brow  is  sometimes  sufficient 
to  indicate  wonder  or  pride,  anger  or  contempt. 
On  the  stage,  indeed,  it  is  often  the  sole  means 
of  expressing  the  fluctuation  of  the  passions. 
I  myself  have  heard  of  a  "  Pooh  !  "  which  in- 
terrupted a  long  intimacy,  when  the  pander 
was  administering  sweet  woids  in  too  liberal  a 
measure. 

As  with  Lamb  so  witli  his  companions.  Each 
was  notable  for  some  in(ii\  idual  mark  or  char- 
acter. His  own  words  will  best  describe  them  : 
"  Not  many  persons  of  science,  and  few  pro- 
fessed literati^  were  of  his  councils.     They  were 


ETS   COMPANIONS.  171 

for  the  most  part  persons  of  an  uncertain  for- 
tune. His  intimados  wei'e,  to  confess  a  truth, 
in  the  world's  eye,  a  ragged  regiment ;  he  found 
them  floating  on  the  surface  of  society,  and  the 
color  or  somctliing  else  in  the  weed  pleased 
him.  The  burrs  stuck  to  him  ;  but  they  were 
good  and  loving  burrs,  for  all  that." 

None  of  Lamb's  intimates  were  persons  of 
title  or  fashion,  or  of  any  political  importance. 
They  were  reading  men,  or  authors,  or  old 
friends  who  had  no  name  or  pretensions.  The 
only  tie  that  held  these  last  and  Lamb  together 
was  a  long-standing  mutual  friendship  —  a  suffi- 
cient link.  None  of  them  ever  forsook  him : 
they  loved  him,  and  in  i-eturn  he  had  a  strong 
regard  for  them.  His  affections,  indeed,  wei'e 
concentrated  on  few  persons ;  not  widened 
(weakened)  by  too  general  a  philanthropy. 
When  you  went  to  Lamb's  rooms  on  the 
Wednesday  evenings  (his  "At  Home"),  you 
generally  found  the  card  table  spread  out,  Lamb 
himself  one  of  the  players.     On   the  corner  of 


1*73 


WEDNESDAY  PARTIES. 


the  tabic  was  a  siuifl-box  ;   and  the  game  was 
enlivened  by  sundry  brief  ejaculations  and  pun- 
gent questions,  which  kept  alive  the  wits  of  the 
party  present.     It  was  not  "  silent  whist !  "     I  do 
not  rcniember  whether,  in  common  with  Sarah 
Battle,    Lamb    had    a    weakness    in    favor    of 
"  Hearts."     I    suppose   that   it   was   at   one   of 
these    meetings    that    he   made   that   shrewd  re- 
mark which  has   since   escaped   into   notoriety : 
"Martin"  (obser\ed  he),  "  if  dirt  were  trumps, 
what  a  hand  you  would  hold  !  "     It  is  not  known 
what  inlluence  Martin's  trumps  had  on  the  rub- 
ber then   in  progress.  —  When  the  conversation 
became    general,    Lamb's    part    in    it    was  very 
effective.      II is    sliort,   clear    sentences    always 
produced  ellect.     He   never  joined   in   talk  un- 
less   he    understood    the    subject ;     then,    if    the 
matter  in   ciuesti<;n    interested    him,   he  was   not 
.slow  in  showing  his   earnestness;    but   I  never 
heard   liim   argue   or  talk   for  argument's   sake. 
If   he    was    inditlerent   to   the   question,   he   was 
silent. 


BIS   COMPANIONS.  173 

The  supper  of  cold  meat,  on  these  occasions, 
was  always  on  the  side-table  ;  not  very  formal, 
as  may  be  imagined  ;  and  every  one  might  rise, 
when  it  suited  him,  and  cut  a  slice  or  take  a 
glass  of  porter,  without  reflecting  on  the  absti- 
nence of  the  i-est  of  the  company.  Lamb  would, 
perhaps,  call  out  and  bid  the  hungry  guest  help 
himself  without  ceremony.  We  learn  (from 
Hazlitt)  that  Martin  Burney's  eulogies  on  books 
were  sometimes  intermingled  with  expressions 
of  his  satisfaction  with  the  veal  pie  which  em- 
ployed him  at  the  sideboard.  After  the  game 
was  won  (and  lost)  the  ring  of  the  cheerful 
glasses  announced  that  punch  or  brandy  and 
water  had  become  the  order  of  the  night. 

It  was  curious  to  observe  the  gradations  in 
Lamb's  manner  to  his  various  guests,  although 
it  was  courteous  to  all.  With  Hazlitt  he  talked 
as  though  they  met  the  subject  in  discussion  on 
equal  terms;  with  Leigh  Hunt  he  exchanged 
repartees;  to  Wordsworth  he  was  almost  re- 
spectful ;    ^vith    Coleridge    he    was    sometimes 

H 


174  MARTIN  BURNET. 

jocose,  sometimes  deferring;  with  Martin  Bur- 
ncy  fraternally  familiar ;  with  Manning  aiVcc- 
tionate ;  with  Godwin  merely  courteous  ;  or,  if 
friendly,  then  in  a  minor  degree.  The  man 
whom  I  found  at  Lamb's  house  more  frequently 
than  any  other  person  was  IMartin  liurncy.  lie 
is  now  scarcely  known  ;  yet  Lamb  dedicated  his 
prose  works  to  him,  in  iSiS,  and  there  described 
him  as  "  no  common  judge  of  books  and  men  ;  " 
and  Southey,  corresponding  with  Rickman, 
when  his  "Joan  of  Arc"  was  being  reprinted, 
says,  "  The  best  omen  I  ha\c  heard  of  its  well- 
doing is,  that  Martin  Burncy  likes  it."  Lamb 
was  very  much  attached  to  Martin,  who  was  a 
sincere  and  able  man,  although  with  a  very 
imprepossessing  physiognomy.  His  face  was 
warped  by  paralysis,  which  allccted  one  eye 
and  one  side  of  his  mouth.  lie  was  plain 
and  iniairectcd  in  manner,  very  diflidcnt  and 
retiring,  yet  pronouncing  his  opinions,  when 
asked  to  do  so,  without  apologv  or  hesitation. 
Ill-   was  a  barristLi,    and    ti.iSL-lIed    the   wcsterii 


MARTIN  BURNEY.  175 

circuit  at  the  same  time  as  Sir  Thomas  Wild 
(afterwards  Lord  Truro),  whose  briefs  he  used 
to  read  before  the  other  considered  them,  mark- 
ing out  the  principal  fiicts  and  points  for  atten- 
tion. Martin  Burney  had  excellent  taste  in 
books ;  eschewed  the  showy  and  artificial,  and 
looked  into  the  sterling  qualities  of  writing. 
He  frequently  accompanied  Lamb  in  his  visits 
to  friends,  and  although  very  familiar  with 
Charles,  he  always  spoke  of  him,  with  respect, 
as  J\I)'.  Lamb.  "  He  is  on  the  top  scale  of  my 
friendship  ladder,"  Lamb  says,  "  on  which  an 
angel  or  two  is  still  climbing,  and  some,  alas ! 
descending."  The  last  time  I  saw  Bumiey  was 
at  the  corner  of  a  street  in  London,  when  he 
was  overflowing  on  the  subject  of  Raffaelle  and 
Hogarth.  After  a  great  and  prolonged  struggle, 
he  said,  he  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
Raffaelle  was  the  greater  man  of  the  two. 

Notwithstanding  Lamb's  somewhat  humble 
description  of  his  friends  and  familiars,  some 
of  them  were    men  well   known   in   literature. 


i;^       LAMirs  LiTKnAny  fbiends. 

Amongst  others,  I  met  there  Messrs.  Cole- 
ridge, I^Ianning,  Ilazlitt,  Ilaydon,  Wordsworth, 
Barron  Field,  Leigh  Hunt,  Clarkson,  Sheri- 
dan Knowk's,  Tahourd,  Kciniey,  Godwin,  tiic 
Burncys,  Payne  Collier,  and  others  whose 
names  I  need  not  chronicle.  I  met  there, 
also,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  Liston,  and 
Miss  Kelly,  and,  I  hclicvc,  Rickman.  Politics 
were  rarely  discussed  amongst  them.  Anec- 
dotes, characteristic,  showing  the  strong  and 
weak  points  of  human  nature,  were  frequent 
enough.  But  j^olitics  (especially  jxuty  poli- 
tics) were  seldom  admitted.  Lamb  disliked 
them  as  a  theme  for  evening  talk ;  he  per- 
haps did  not  understand  tlic  subject  scientifi- 
cally. And  when  Ila/.litt's  impetuosity  drove 
him,  as  it  sometimes  did,  into  fierce  expres- 
sions on  public  afVairs,  these  were  usually  re- 
ceived in  silence  ;  and  the  matter  thus  raised  up 
for  assent  or  controversy  was  allowed  to  dro]). 

Lamb's  old  associates  are  now  dead.    "  They 
that    lived    so  long,"  as    he    says,    "  and    flour- 


SOCIAL   PARTIES.  177 

ished  so  steadily,  are  all  crumbled  away," 
The  beauty  of  these  evenings  was,  that  every 
one  was  placed  ujDon  an  easy  level.  No  one 
out-topped  the  others.  No  one  —  not  even 
Coleridge  —  was  permitted  to  out-talk  the  rest. 
No  one  was  allowed  to  hector  another,  or  to 
bring  his  own  grievances  too  prominently  for- 
ward, so  as  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  the 
night.  Every  one  had  a  right  to  speak,  and 
to  be  heard  ;  and  no  one  was  ever  trodden  or 
clamored  down  (as  in  some  large  assemblies) 
until  he  had  proved  that  he  was  not  entitled 
to  a  hearing,  or  until  he  had  abused  his  priv- 
ilege. I  never,  in  all  my  life,  heard  so  much 
unpretending  good  sense  talked,  as  at  Charles 
Lamb's  social  parties.  Often  a  piece  of  spar- 
kling humor  was  shot  out  that  illuminated  the 
whole  evening.  Sometimes  there  was  a  flight 
of  high  and  earnest  talk,  that  took  one  half 
way  towards  the  stars. 

It    seems    great    matter   for   regret    that    the 
thoughts   of  men  like  Lamb's  associates  should 
12 


1 78      iiErnuDUCTiu.s  of  tjiouuiits. 

have  passed  away  altoj];ether  ;  for  scarcely  any 
of  them,  save  Wordsworth  and  Colerldjijc,  arc 
now  distinctly  rememhercd  ;  and  it  is,  perhaps, 
not  impossible  to  foretell  the  duration  of  their 
fame.  .Ml  have  answered  their  purpose,  I 
suppose.  Each  has  had  his  turn,  and  lias 
given  j)lace  to  a  younger  thinker,  as  the 
father  is  replaced  by  the  son.  Thus  Jeremy 
Taylor  an.d  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  Web- 
ster, and  the  (jld  Dramatists,  have  travelled  out 
of  sight,  and  their  thoughts  are  reproduced 
by  modern  writers,  the  originators  of  those 
thoughts  often  remaining  unknown.  Perhaps 
0)ic^  out  of  many  thousand  authors,  survives 
into  an  immortalitv.  The  manner  and  the 
taste  change.  The  armor  and  falchion  of  old 
give  place  to  the  new  weapons  of  modern 
warfare  —  less  weighty,  but  perhaps  as  trench- 
ant. We  praise  the  old  autliors,  but  we  do 
not  read  them.  Tlie  Soul  f)f  Antifpiity  seems 
to  survive  only  in  its  proverbs,  which  contain 
the    very  essence    of  wisdom. 


(  179  ) 


CHAPTER    VI. 

London  Magazine.  —  Contributors.  —  Trans- 
fer of  Magazijie.  —  MontJily  Dinners  and 
Visitors.  —  Colebrook  Cottage.  —  LamUs 
Walks.  —  Essays  of  Elia:  Their  Excel- 
lence'and  Character.  —  Enlarged  Acqitaint- 
ance.  —  Visit  to  Paris.  —  Miss  /sola.  — 
Quarrel  with  Southey.  —  Leaves  India 
Hoiise.  —  Leisure.  —  Ajniczis  Redivivus.  — 
Edward   Irviufr. 

'T~^HE  "  London  Magazine  "  was  established 
-"-  in  January,  1820,  the  publishers  being 
Messrs.  Baldwin,  Cradock,  and  Joy,  and  its 
editor  being  Mr.  John  Scott,  who  had  formerl}^ 
edited  "The  Champion"  newspaper,  and 
whose  profession  was  exclusively  that  of  a 
man  of  letters.  At  this  distance  of  time  it  is 
impossible  to  specify  the  authors  of  all  the  va- 
rious papers  which  gave  a  tone  to  the  Maga- 
zine ;    but    as    this    publication   forms,  in   fact, 


i8o  '^  LONDON  MACIAZJNK." 

t 
tlie  great  foundation  of  Lamb's  fame,  I  think  it 

well  to  enter  somewhat  minutely  into  its  con- 
stitution and  character. 

Mr.  yohn  Scott  was  the  writer  of  the  sev- 
eral articles  entitled  "  The  Living  Authors  ;  " 
of  a  good  many  of  tlie  earlier  criticisms ;  of 
some  of  the  papers  on  politics ;  and  of  some 
which  may  be  termed  "  Controversial."  The 
essays  on  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Wordsworth, 
Godwin,  and  Lord  Byron  are  from  his  hand. 
I  le  contributed  also  the  critical  papers  on 
the  writings  of  Keats,  Shelley,  Leigh  Hunt, 
and   Ilazlitt. 

J/r.  Hazlitt  wrote  all  the  articles  which 
appear  under  the  liead  ''  Drama  ;  "  the  twelve 
essays  entitled  ''  Table  Talk  ;  "  and  the  papers 
on  Fonthill  Abbey,  and  on  the  Angerstein 
pictures,  and  the  Elgin   marbles. 

Mr.  Charles  Lamb's  papers  were  tlie  well- 
known  Elia  Essays,  which  first  appeared  in 
this  Magazine.  Mr.  Elia  (whose  name  he 
assumed)    was,    at    one    time,  a    clerk    in    the 


CONTRIBUTORS   TO  MAGAZINE.       iSi 

India  House.  He  died,  however,  before  the. 
Essays  were  made  pubHc,  and  was  ignorant 
of  Lamb's  intention   to  do   honor  to  his   name. 

j\Ir.  TJioinas  Carlyle  was  author  of  the 
"  Life  and  Writings  of  Scliiller,"  in  the  eighth, 
ninth,  and  tenth  volumes  of  the  Magazine. 
These  papers,  although  very  excellent,  appear 
to  be  scarcely  prophetic  of  the  great  fame 
which  their  author  was  afterwards  destined, 
so  justly,   to  achieve. 

Mr.  De  ^iiincey's  contributions  were  the 
"  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater ; "  also  vari- 
ous papers  specilied  as  being  "  by  the  Opium 
Eater ; "  the  essay  on  Jean  Paul  Richter,  and 
papers  translated  from  the  German,  or  dealing 
with  German  literature. 

The  Reverend  Henry  Fra7icis  Cary  (the 
translator  of  Dante)  wi'ote  the  Notices  of  the 
Early  French  poets ;  the  additions  to  Orford's 
"  Royal  and  Noble  Authors ; "  and,  I  believe, 
the  continuations  of  Johnson's  "  Lives  of  the 
Poets."    Of  these  last,  however,  I  am  not  certain. 


1 82       CONTRIDUrOnS    TO  MAGAZINE. 

'  Mr.  Allan  CunniiigJiaDi  (the  Scottish  poet) 
was  author  of  tlic  "  Twelve  Tales  of  Lyddal 
Cross ;  "  of  the  scries  of  stories  or  papers  st}'led 
"  Traditional  Literature  ;  "  and  of  various  other 
contributions  in  poetry  and  prose. 

Mr.  John  Poole  contributed  the  "  Beauties 
of  the  living  Dramatists ; "  being  burlesque  im- 
itations of  modem  WTiters  for  the  stage ;  viz., 
I^Iorton,  Dibdin,  Reynolds,  Moncriefl"",  &c. 

Mr.  John  Hamilton  Reynolds  wrote,  I  be- 
lieve, in  every  number  of  the  periodical,  after 
it  came  into  the  hands  of  Taylor  and  Ilcsscy, 
who  were  his  friends.  All  the  papers  with  the 
name  of  Henry  Herbert  allixed  were  written  by 
him  ;  also  the  descriptive  accounts  of  the  Coro- 
nation, Greenwich  Hospital,  The  Cockpit  Royal, 
The  Trial  of  Thurtell,  &c. 

^fr.  r/ionias  /food  fleshed  his  maiden  sword 
here  ;  and  his  first  poems  of  length,  "•  Lycus  the 
Centaur"  and  "The  two  Peacocks  of  IJedfont" 
may  be  found  in  tiie  Magazine. 

J//-.   George  Darhy   (author  of  "  Thomas  & 


CONTBIBUTOBS    TO  MAGAZINE        1S3 

Beckct,"  &c.)  wrote  the  several  papers  entitled 
"  Dramaticles  ;  "  some  pieces  of  verse  ;  and  the 
Letters  addressed  to  "  The  Dramatists  of  the 
Day." 

Mf.  Richard  Ayton  wrote  "  The  Sea  Roam- 
ers,"  the  article  on  "  Hunting,"  and  such  papers 
as  are  distinguished  by  the  signature  "  R.  A." 

Mr.  Keats  (the  poet)  and  Mr.  Jatnes  Mont- 
gomery  contributed  verses. 

Sir  John  Boivring  (I  believe)  translated  into 
English  verse  the  Spanish  poetry,  and  wrote  the 
several  papers  which  appear  under  the  head  of 
"  Spanish  Romances." 

Mr.  Henry  Southern  (editor  of  "  The  Retro- 
spective Review")  wrote  the  "  Conversations  of 
Lord  Byron,"  and  "  The  Fanariotes  of  Constan- 
tinople," in  the  tenth  volume. 

Mr.  Walter  Savage  Landor  was  author  of 
the  Imaginary  Conversation,  between  Southey 
and  Porson,  in  volume  eight. 

Air.  Julius  {Archdeacon)  Hare  reviewed  the 
works  of  Landor  in  the  tenth  volume. 


1 84       CONTRIBUTORS   TO  MAGAZINE. 

Mr.  Elton  contributed  many  translations  from 
Greek  and  Latin  authors  ;  from  the  minor  poems 
of  Homer,  from  Catulhis,Nonnus,  Propertius,  &c. 

Messrs.  Hartley  Coleridge,  John  Clare,  Cor- 
nelius Webb,  Bernard  IJarton,  and  others  sent 
poems  ;  generally  with  the  indicating  name. 

I  myself  ^vas  amongst  the  crowd  of  contribu- 
tors ;  and  was  author  of  various  pieces,  some  in 
verse,  and  (jthers  in  prose,  now  under  the  pro- 
tection of  that  great  Power  which  is  called 
"  Oblivion." 

Finally,  the  too  celebrated    Thomas   Griffiths 

Wainc-Ji'right  contributed  varicjus  fantasies,  on 

Art   and   Arts  ;    all   or   most  of  which  may  be 

recognized    by    his    assumed     name    of    Janus 

Weathercock. 

To  show  the  dilliculty  of  specifying  the  au- 
thorship of  all  the  articles  contributed,  —  even 
Mr.  Hesscy  (one  of  the  proprietors)  was  unable 
to  do  so  ;  and  indeed,  shortly  before  his  death, 
applied   to   nie  for  information  on  the  subject. 

15\  the  aid  ^^A  Uk-    'LiitJLinen  w  lio  contribiilcil 


TRANSFER   OF  MAGAZINE.  1S5 

—  each  his  quota  —  to  the  "  London  Magazine," 
it  acquired  much  reputation,  and  a  very  consid- 
erable sale.  During  its  career  of  five  years,  it 
had,  for  a  certain  style  of  essay,  no  superior 
(scarcely  an  equal)  amongst  the  periodicals  of 
the  day.  It  was  perhaps  not  so  w^idely  popular 
as  works  directed  to  the  multitude,  instead  of  to 
the  select  few,  might  have  been ;  for  thoughts 
and  words  addressed  to  the  cultivated  intellect 
only  inust  always  reckon  upon  limited  success. 
Yet  the  Magazine  was  successful  to  an  extent 
that  preserved  its  proprietors  from  loss  ;  perhaps 
not  greatly  beyond  that  point.  Readers  in  those 
years  were  insignificant  in  number,  compared 
with  i-eaders  of  the  present  time,  when  almost 
all  men  are  able  to  derive  benefit  from  letters, 
and  letters  are  placed  within  every  one's  reach. 
On  the  death  of  Mr.  John  Scott,  the  Magazine, 
in  July,  1 83 1,  passed  into  the  hands  of  Messrs. 
Taylor  and  Hessey ;  the  former  being  the  gen- 
tleman who  discovered  the  identity  of  Junius 
with  Sir  Philip  Francis ;   the   latter  being   sim- 


iS6       MANAGEMENT  OF  MAGAZINE. 

ply  vcr}'  courteous  to  all,  and  hij^'hly  respectable 
and  intelligent. 

John  Scott  was  an  able  literary  man.  I  do 
not  renicniber  nuich  more  of  liim  than  that  he 
was  a  shrewd  and  I  believe  a  conscientious 
writer  ;  that  he  had  great  industry  ;  was,  gen- 
erally, well  read,  and  possessed  a  very  fair 
amount  of  critical  taste ;  that,  like  other  j:)cr- 
sons,  he  had  some  prejudices,  and  that  he  was 
sometimes,  moreover,  a  little  hasty  and  irritable. 
Yet  he  agreed  well,  as  far  as  I  know,  with  the 
regiment  of  mercenaries  who  marched  under 
his  Hag. 

When  Taylor  and  ITcsscy  assumed  the  man- 
agement of  the  "  London  Magazine "  they  en- 
gaged no  editor.  They  were  tolerably  liberal 
paymasters ;  the  remuneration  for  each  page  of 
prose  (not  very  laborious)  being,  if  the  writer 
were  a  jierson  of  repute  or  ability,  one  jiound  ; 
and  for  each  page  of  verse,  two  pounds. 
Charles  I.amb  received  (very  fitb )  for  his 
I>rief  and  charuiing  Essays,  two  or  three  times 


MONTHLY  DINNERS.  1S7 

the  amount  of  the  other  writers.  When  they 
purchased  the  Magazine,  the  proprietors  opened 
a  house  in  Waterloo  Place  for  the  better  circu- 
lation of  the  publication. 

It  was  there  that  the  contributors  met  once 
a  month,  over  an  excellent  dinner  given  by  the 
firm,  and  consulted  and  talked  on  literary  mat- 
ters together.  These  meetings  were  very  social, 
all  the  guests  coming  with  a  determination  to 
please  and  to  be  pleased.  I  do  not  know  that 
many  important  matters  were  arranged,  for  the 
welfare  of  the  Magazine,  at  these  dinners  ;  but 
the  hearts  of  the  contributors  were  opened,  and 
with  the  expansion  of  the  heart  the  intellect 
widened  also.  If  there  had  been  any  shades 
of  jealousy  amongst  them,  they  faded  away 
before  the  light  of  the  friendly  carousal ;  if  there 
was  any  envy,  it  died.  All  the  fences  and  re- 
straints of  authorship  were  cast  oft",  and  the 
natural  human  being  was  disclosed. 

Amongst  others,  Charles  Lamb  came  to  most 
of  these  dinners,  always  dressed  in  black  (his 


1 88  QUESTS  AT  THE  FEASTS. 

old  snulV-coloiccl  suit  haviii;^  been  dismissed  for 
years)  ;  always  kiiul  and  genial  ;  ccniversatioiial, 
not  talkative,  but  quick  in  reply  ;  eating  little, 
and  drinking  moderately  with  the  rest.  Allan 
Cuimingham,  a  stalwart  man,  was  generally 
there  ;  very  Scotch  in  aspect,  but  ready  to  do  a 
good  turn  to  any  one.  His  talk  was  not  too 
abundant,  although  he  was  a  voluminous  writer 
in  prose.  His  songs,  not  unworthy  of  being 
comparetl  with  even  those  of  IJurns,  are  (as 
everybody  knows)  excellent.  His  face  shone 
at  these  festivities.  Reynolds  came  always. 
His  good  temper  and  vivacity  were  like  con- 
diments at  the  feast. 

There  also  came,  once  or  twice,  the  Rev. 
H.  F.  Cary,  the  quiet  gentleness  of  whose 
face  ahiKJst  interfered  with  its  real  intelligence, 
^'et  he  sjjoke  well,  and  with  readiness,  on  any 
subject  that  he  clu^se  to  discuss.  He  was  very 
intimate  \vith  Lamb,  who  latterly  often  dined 
with  him,  anil  was  always  i:)unctual.  "  By 
Cot's    jilcssing    we    will    not  be    absent    at   the 


LAMB'S  REGARD  FOR   GARY.         189 

Grace"  (he  writes  in  1S34).  Lamb's  taste  was 
very  homely :  he  liked  tripe  and  cow-heel,  and 
once,  when  he  was  suggesting  a  particular  dish 
to  his  friend,  he  wrote,  "  We  were  talking  of 
roast  shoulder  of  mutton  and  onion  sauce  ;  but 
I  scorn  to  prescribe  hospitalities."  Charles 
had  great  regard  for  Mr.  Gary ;  and  in  his 
last  letter  (written  on  his  death-bed)  he  in- 
quired for  a  book,  which  he  was  very  uneasy 
about,  and  which  he  thought  he  had  left  at 
Mrs.  Dyer's.  "  It  is  Mr.  Gary's  book "  (he 
says),  "and  I  would  not  lose  it  for  the  world." 
Gary  was  entirely  without  vanity ;  and  he, 
who  had  traversed  the  ghastly  regions  of  the 
Inferno,  interchanged  little  courtesies  on  equal 
terms  with  workers  who  had .  never  travelled 
beyond  the  pages  of  "  The  London  Magazine." 
No  one  (it  is  said)  who  has  performed  any- 
thing great  ever  looks  big  upon  it. 

Thomas  Hood  was  there,  almost  silent  ex- 
cept when  he  shot  out  some  irresistible  pun, 
and    disturbed    the   gravity    of    the    company. 


190  THOMAS   HOOD. 

Hood's  labors  were  poetic,  but  his  sports  were 
passerine.  It  is  remarkable  that  he,  who  was 
capable  of  jesting  even  on  his  own  prejudices 
and  predilections,  should  not  (like  Catullus) 
have  ])rought  down  the  "  Sparrow,"  and  en- 
closed him  in  an  ode.  Laml)  admired  and 
was  very  familiar  with  him.  "  What  a  fertile 
genius  he  is ! "  (Charles  Laml)  writes  to  Ber- 
nard Barton),  "and  quiet  withal."  He  then 
"expatiates  jiarticularly  on  Hood's  sketch  of 
"Very  Deaf 'indeed  !  "  wherein  a  footpad  has 
stopped  an  old  gentleman,  but  cannot  make 
liim  understand  wliat  he  wants,  although  the 
felUnv  is  firing  a  i)ist()l  into  his  car  trumpet. 
"  ^'()u'(l  like  liim  \cry  much,"  he  adds.  Al- 
thougii  Laml)  liked  liim  very  much,  he  was  a 
little  annoyed  once  by  Hooil  writing  a  comical 
essay  in  imitation  of  (and  so  much  like)  one 
of  his  own,  that  i)eople  generally  thouglit  that 
Elia  had  awakened  in  an  unruly  mood.  Haz- 
litt  attended  once  or  twice;  but  he  was  a 
rather   silent   guest,    rising    into    emphatic    talk 


DE   QUINCE Y.  191 

only  when  some  political  discussion  (very  rai-e) 
stimulated  him. 

Mr.  De  Qiiincey  appeared  at  only  one  of 
these  dinners.  The  expression  of  his  face 
was  intelligent,  but  cramped  and  somewhat 
peevish.  He  was  self-involved,  and  did  not  add 
to  the  cheerfulness  of  the  meeting.  I  have  con- 
sulted this  gentleman's  three  essays,  of  which 
Charles  Lamb  is  professedly  the  subject ;  but  I 
cannot  derive  from  them  anything  illustrative 
of  my  friend  Lamb's  character.  I  have  been 
mainly  struck  therein  by  De  Qiiincey's  attacks 
on  Hazlitt,  to  whom  the  essays  had  no  rela- 
tion. I  am  aware  that  the  two  authors  (Haz- 
litt and  De  Qiiincey)  had  a  quarrel  in  1S33, 
Hazlitt  having  claimed  certain  theories,  or 
reasonings  which  the  other  had  propounded 
as  his  own.  In  reply  to  Mr.  De  Qiiincey's 
claims  to  have  had  a  familiar  acquaintance 
with  Charles  Lamb  (in  1821  and  1S33),  I 
have  to  observe  that  during  these  years  (when 
I   was   almost   continually   with   him)    I    never 


192  COLElillOOK  COTTAGE. 

saw  Mr.  Dc  C^iinccy  at  his  house,  and  never 
heard  Lamb  speak  of  him  or  refer  to  his  writ- 
ings on  any  occasion.  His  visits  to  Lamb 
were  surely  very  rare. 

yo//;i  CI  a  re  ^  a  peasant  from  Northampton- 
shire, and  a  better  poet  than  Bloomfield,  was 
one  of  the  visitors.  He  was  thoroughly  rustic, 
dressed  in  conspicuously  country  fashion,  and 
was  as  simple  as  a  daisy.  His  delight  at 
the  wonders  of  London  formed  the  staple  of 
his  talk.  This  was  often  stimulated  into  ex- 
travagance by  the  facetious  fictions  of  Reynolds. 
Poor  fellow,  he  died   insane. 

About  this  time  Lamb  determined  to  leave 
London;  and  in  1S23  he  moved  into  Cole- 
brook  Cottage,  Islington,  a  small,  detached 
white  house  of  six  rooms.  "  The  New  River, 
rather  elderly  by  this  time"  (he  says),  "runs, 
if  a  moderate  walking  pace  can  be  so  termed, 
close  to  the  foot  (jf  the  house;  behind  is  a 
spacious  garden,  cS:c.,  and  the  cheerful  dining- 
room   is   studded    .all   over  and    rou<rh  with    old 


LAMB'S   WALES.  193 

books :    I  feci  like  a  great  lord ;    never   having 
had  a  house  before." 

From  this  place  (which  a  friend  of  his 
christened  "  Petty  Venice ")  he  used  often  toi^ 
w^alk  into  London,  to  breakfast  or  dine  with 
an  acquaintance.  For  walking  was  always 
grateful  to  him.  When  confined  to  his  room 
in  the  India  House,  he  counted  it  amongst  his 
principal  recreations,  and  even  now,  with  the 
whole  world  of  leisure  before  him,  it  ranked 
amongst  his  daily  enjoyments.  By  himself 
or  with  an  acquaintance,  and  subsequently 
with  Hood's  dog  Dash  (whose  name  should 
have  been  Rover),  he  wandered  over  all  the 
roads  and  by-paths  of  the  adjoining  country. 
He  was  a  peripatetic,  in  every  way,  beyond 
the  followers  of  Aristotle.  Walking  occupied 
his  energies  ;  and  when  he  returned  home,  he 
(like  Sai-ah  Battle)  "  unbent  his  mind  over  a 
book."  "I  cannot  sit  and  think"  is  his  phrase. 
If  he  now  and  then  stopped  for  a  minute  at  a 
^3 


194  LAMirS    WALKS. 

rustic  public  liousc,  tiicd  with  tlic  excursive 
caprices  of  Dash  —  beguiled  perhaps  by  the 
simple  attractions  of  a  village  sign  —  I  hold 
^im  excusable  for  the  glass  of  porter  which 
sometimes  invigorated  him   in  his  fatigue. 

In  the  course  of  these  walks  he  traversed 
all  the  green  regions  which  lie  on  the  north 
and  north-east  of  the  metropolis.  In  London 
he  loved  to  frequent  those  streets  where  the 
old  bookshops  w^erc,  Wardour  Street,  Princes 
Street,  Seven  Dials  (where  the  shop  has  been 
long  closed)  :  he  loved  also  Gray's  Inn,  in  the 
garden  of  which  he  met  Dodd,  just  before  his 
death  ("with  his  bu'lbon  mask  taken  ofT")  ; 
and  the  Temple,  into  which  you  pass  from 
the  noise  and  crowd  of  Fleet  Street, —  into 
the  quiet  and  "  ample  squares  and  green  re- 
cesses," where  the  old  Dial,  "the  garden  god 
of  Christian  gardens,"  tlien  told  of  Time,  and 
where  the  still  living  fountain  sends  uj)  its 
song  into  the  listening  air. 


"ELI A"  ESSAYS.  195 

Of  the  Essays  of  "  Elia,"  *  written  original- 
ly for  the  London  Magazine,  I  feel  it  diffi- 
cult to  speak.  They  are  the  best  amongst 
the  good  —  his  best.  I  see  that  they  are 
genial,  delicate,  terse,  full  of  thought  and  full 
of  humor  ;  that  they  are  delightfully  personal ; 
and  when  he  speaks  of  himself  you  cannot 
hear  too  mvich ;  that  they  are  not  imitations, 
but  adoptions.  We  encounter  his  likings  and 
fears,  his  fancies  (his  nature)  in  all.  The 
words  have  an  import  never  known  before : 
the  syllables  have  expanded  their  meaning, 
like  opened  flowers ;  the  goodness  of  others 
is  heightened  by  his  own  tenderness ;  and 
what  is  in  nature  hard  and  bad  is  qualified 
(qualified,  not  concealed)  by  the  tender  light 
of  pity,  which  always  intermingles  with  his 
own   vision.      Gravity   and   laughter,  fact   and 

*  The  first  Essays  of  Elia  were  published  by  Taylor 
and  Hessey  under  the  title  "Elia,"  in  1823.  The 
second  Essays  were,  together  with  the  ' '  Popular  Falla- 
cies," collected  and  jiublishcd  imder  the  title  of  "  The 
Lust  Essays   of   Elia,"    by  Moxon,   iu    1833, 


196  MODESTY. 

fiction,  are  heaped  together,  leavened  in  each 
case  by  charity  and  toleration ;  and  all  are 
marked  by  a  wise  humanity.  Lamb's  humor, 
I  imagine,  oftL'u  reflected  (sometimes,  I  hope, 
rclicvcil)  tlic  load  of  pain  that  always  weighed 
on   his  own   heart. 

The  first  of  the  Essays  ("  The  South  Sea 
House ")  appeared  in  the  month  of  August, 
1S20;  the  last  (''Captain  Jackson")  in  No- 
vember, 1S24.  Lamb's  literary  prosperity  dur- 
ing this  period  was  at  the  highest;  }et  he 
was  always  loath  to  show  himself  too  much 
before  the  world.  After  tlie  first  series  of 
Essays  had  been  published  (for  they  are 
(Tivided  into  two  parts)  he  feigned  that  he 
was  dead,  and  caused  the  second  series  to  be 
printed  as  by  "  a  friend  of  the  late  Elia." 
These  were  written  somewhat  reluctantly. 
His  words  arc,  "To  say  the  truth,  it  is  time 
he  [Elia]  were  gone.  The  humor  of  the 
thing,  if  ever  tliere  were  much  humor  in 
il.      w;is     pretty     well     exliausted  ;     and     a     two 


•  BECOLLECTIONS   OF  LAMB.  197 

years-and-a-half  existence  has  been  a  tolerable 
duration  for  a  phantom."  It  is  thus  modestly 
that  he  speaks  of  essays  which  have  delighted 
all  cultivated  readers.  * 

I  want  a  johrase  to  express  the  combination 
of  qualities  which  constitutes  Lamb's  excel- 
lence in  letters.  In  the  absence  of  this,  I 
must  content  myself  with  referring  to  some 
of  the  papers  which  live  most  distinctly  in 
my  recollectioni  I  will  not  transcribe  any 
part  of  his  eulogy  on  Hogarth  ;  nor  of  his  fine 
survey  of  "  Lear,"  that  grandest  of  all  trage- 
dies. They  are  well  known  to  students  of 
books.  I  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  Elia  Es- 
says only.  In  mere  variety  of  subject  (extent 
in  a  small  space)  they  surpass  almost  all  other 
essays.  They  are  full  of  a  witty  melancholy. 
Many  of  them  may  be  termed  autobiographi- 
cal, which  trebles  their  interest  with  most 
readers. 

Let  me  recollect :  —  How  he  mourns  over 
the  ruins  of  Blakesmoor  (once  his  home  on 
I 


19S  BE  COL  LECTIONS   OF  LAMB. 

holidays),  "reduced  to  an  antiquity"!  How  he 
stalks,  ghost-like,  through  the  desolate  rooms 
of  the  South  Sea  House,  or  treads  the  ave- 
nues of  the  Temple,  where  tlie  benchers 
("  supposed  to  have  been  children  once  ")  are 
paciii!^  the  stony  terraces !  Then  there  is  the 
inimitable  Sijrah  Battle  (unconquered  even 
by  Chance),  arming  herself  for  the  war  of 
whist ;  and  the  young  Africans,  "  preaching 
from  their  chimney-pulpits  lessons  of  patience 
to  mankind."  If  your  appetite  is  keen,  by 
all  means  visit  Bobo,  who  iincntcd  roast  pig: 
if  gay,  and  disposed  to  saunter  through  the 
pleasant  lanes  of  Hertfordshire,  go  to  Mackcry 
End,  where  the  Gladmans  and  Brutons  will 
bid  you  welcome :  if  grave,  let  your  eyes  re- 
pose on  the  face  of  dear  old  Bridget  Elia,  "  in 
a  season  of  distress  the  truest  comforter." 
Should  you  wish  to  enlarge  your  luiinanity, 
place  a  few  coins  (inaravedis)  in  the  palm 
of  one  of  the  beggars  (the  "  bhiid  Tobits") 
of  lyoiidoii,  .uid   try   to    believe    his  tales,  histo- 


"POPULAR  FALLACIES."  199 

rics  or  fables,  as  though  they  were  the  veri- 
table stories  (told  by  night)  on  the  banks 
of  the  famous  Tigris.  Do  not  despise  the 
poorest  of  the  poor  —  even  the  writer  of  val- 
entines :  "  All  valentines  are  not  foolish,"  as 
you  may  read  in  Elia's  words ;  and  "  All 
fools'  day"  may  cheer  you,  as  the  fool  in 
"  Lear "    may   make   you   wise  and   tolerant. 

I  could  go  on  for  many  pages  —  to  the 
poor  relations,  and  the  old  books,  and  the 
old  actors ;  to  Dodd,  who  "  dying  put  on 
the  weeds  of  Dominic  ;  "  and  to  Mrs.  Jordan 
and  Dickey  Suet  (both  whom  I  well  re- 
member) ;  to  Elliston,  always  on  the  stage ; 
to  Munden,  with  features  ever  changing; 
and  to  Liston,  with  only  one  face:  "But 
what  a  face !  "  I  foi-bear.  I  pass  also  over 
Comberbatch  (Coleridge),  borrower  of  books, 
and  Captain  Jackson,  and  Barbara  S.  (Miss 
Kelly),  and  go  to  the  rest  of  my  little  history. 

The  "  Popular  Fallacies,"  which  in  course 
of  time   followed,   and  were   eventually  added 


.^- 


200  "POPULAR  FALLACIES." 

to  the  second  scries  and  rc-publishcd,  arc  in 
manner  essays  also  on  a  small  scale,  brief 
and  dealing  with  abstract  subjects  more  than 
the  "  Elia."  It  may  be  interesting  to  know 
tliat  Lamb's  two  favorites  were  "  That  home 
is  home,  though  it  is  never  so  homely,"  and 
"  That  we  should  rise  with  the  lark."  In 
the  first  of  these  he  enters  into  all  the  dis- 
comforts and  terrible  distractions  of  a  poor 
man's  home ;  in  the  second  he  descants  on 
the  luxuries  of  bed,  and  tlic  nutritious  value 
of  dreams :  "  The  busy  part  of  mankind," 
he  says,  "  are  content  to  swallow  their  sleep 
by  wholesale :  we  choose  to  linger  in  bed 
and  digest  our  dreams."  The  last  "  Fallacy " 
is  remarkable  for  a  sentence  which  seems  to 
refer  to  Alice  W. :  "  We  were  never  much 
in  the  world,"  he  says;  "disappointment 
early  struck  a  dark  veil  between  us  and  its 
dazzling  illusions :  "  he  tlicn  concludes  with, 
"We  once  thought  life  to  be  something; 
but    it    has    unaccountably    fallen    from    us   be- 


LAMB'S   STUDIES.  201 

fore    its   time.     The*  sun    has   no    purposes   of 
ours    to    light    us    to.      Why    should   we    get 


up 


9" 


It  will  be  observed  by  the  sagacious  stu- 
dent of  the  entire  Essays,  that  however  quaint 
or  familiar,  or  (rarely,  however)  sprinkled 
with  classical  allusions,  they  are  never  vul- 
gar, nor  commonplace,  nor  pedantic.  They 
are  "  natural  with  a  self-pleasing  quaintness." 
The  phrases  are  not  affected,  but  are  de- 
rived from  our  ancestors,  now  gone  to  another 
country ;  they  are  brought  back  from  the 
land  of  shadows,  and  made  denizens  of  Eng- 
land, in  modei-n  times.  Lamb's  studies  were 
the  lives  and  characters  of  men ;  his  humors 
and  tragic  meditations  were  generally  dug 
out  of  his  own  heart:  there  are  in  them 
earnestness,  and  pity,  and  generosity,  and 
truth ;  and  there  is  not  a  mean  or  base 
thought   to   be   found   throughout    all. 

In  reading  over  these  old  essays,  some  of 
them  affect  me  with  a  grave  pleasure,  amount- 


202  LAMB'S   STUDIES'. 

ing  to  pain.  I  seem  to  import  into  tlicm 
the  verj'  feeling  with  which  he  wrote  them ; 
his  looks  and  movements  are  transfigured, 
and  communicated  to  me  by  the  poor  art 
of  tlic  printer.  His  voice,  so  sincere  and 
earnest,  rings  in  my  ear  again.  lie  was  no 
Fcignwcll  :  apart  from  his  joke,  never  was  a 
man  so  real,  and  free  from  pretence.  No 
one,  as  I  believe,  will  ever  taste  the  flavor  of 
certain  writers  as  he  has  done.  He  was  the 
last  true  lover  of  Antiquity.  Although  he 
admitted  a  few  of  tlie  beauties  of  modern 
times,  yet  in  his  stronger  love  he  soared  back- 
wards to  old  accli\ities,  and  loved  to  rest 
there.  His  essays,  like  his  sonnets,  arc  (as  I 
have  said)  reflections  of  his  own  feelings. 
And  so,  I  think,  should  essays  generally  be. 
A  history  or  sketch  of  science,  or  a  logical 
effort,  may  help  the  reader  some  way  up  the 
ladder  of  learning ;  but  they  do  not  link 
themselves  with  his  affections.  I  myself  pre- 
fer the  affections  to   the   sciences.      The   story 


ENLARGED  ACQUAINTANCE.  203 

of  the  heart  is  the  deepest  of  all  histories ; 
and  Shakespeare  is  profounder  and  longer 
lived  than  Maclaurin,  or  Malthus,  or  Ricardo. 
Lamb's  career  throughout  his  later  years  was 
marked  by  an  enlarged  intercourse  with  society 
(it  had  never  been  confined  to  persons  of  his 
own  way  of  thinking),  by  more  frequent  ab- 
sences in  the  country  and  elsewhere,  and  by 
the  reception  of  a  somewhat  wider  body  of 
acquaintance  into  his  own  house.  He  visited 
the  Universities,  in  which  he  much  delighted : 
he  fraternized  with  many  of  the  contributors  to 
the  "  London  Magazine."  He  received  the  let- 
ters and  calls  of  his  admirers  —  strangers  and 
otliers.  These  were  now  much  extended  in 
number,  by  the  publication  of  the  Essays  of 
Elia.  I  was  in  the  habit  of  seemg  him  very 
frequently  at  his  home :  I  met  him  also  at  Mr. 
Gary's,  at  Leigh  Hunt's,  at  Novello's,  at  Hay- 
don's,  once  at  Hazlitf  s,  and  elsewhere.  It  must 
have  been  about  this  time  that  one  of  his  visits 
(which  always   took  place  when   the   students 


204  VISIT  TO   OXFORD. 

• 

were  absent)  was  made  to  Oxford,  where  he 
met  George  Dyer,  dreaming  amongst  the  quad- 
rangles, as  he  has  described  in  his  pleasant  paper 
called  "  Oxford  in  the  Vacation." 

Lamb's  letters  to  correspondents  arc  perhaps 
not  quite  so  frequent  now  as  formerly.  He 
writes  occasionally  to  his  old  friends  ;  to  Words- 
worth, and  Southcy,  aiid  Coleridge ;  also  to 
Manning,  who  is  still  in  China,  and  to  whom 
in  December,  1S15,  he  had  sent  one  of  his  best 
and  most  characteristic  letters,  describing  the 
(imaginary)  death  and  decrepitude  of  his  corre- 
spondent's friends  in  England  ;  although  he  takes 
care  (the  next  day)  to  tell  him  that  his  first  was 
a  "  lying  letter."  Indeed,  that  letter  itself,  hu- 
morous as  it  is,  is  so  obviously  manufactured 
in  the  fabulous  district  of  hyperbole,  that  it 
rc(juircs  no  disavowal.  Manning,  however,  re- 
turns t(j  England  not  long  afterwards  ;  and  then 
the  correspondence,  if  less  humorous,  is  also 
less  built  up  of  improbabilities.  He  corresponds 
also   with   !Mr.  Barron  Field,  who   is   relegated 


VISIT  TO  PARIS.  205 

to  the  Judicial  Bench  in  New  Soutli  Wales. 
Of  him  he  inquires  about  "  The  Land  of 
Thieves ; "  he  wants  to  know  if  their  poets  be 
not  plagiarists ;  and  suggests  that  half  the  truth 
which  his  letters  contain  "  will  be  converted 
into  lies  "  before  they  reach  his  correspondent. 
Mr.  Field  is  the  gentleman  to  whom  the  pleas- 
ant paper  on  "  Distant  Correspondents  "  is  ad- 
dressed. 

In  1822  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister  travelled 
as  far  as  Paris,  neither  of  them  understanding 
a  word  of  the  French  language.  What  tempted 
them  to  undertake  this  expedition  I  never  knew. 
Perhaps,  as  he  formerly  said,  when  journeying 
to  the  Lakes,  it  was  merely  a  daring  ambition 
to  see  "  remote  regions."  The  French  journey 
seems  to  have  been  almost  barren  of  good.  He 
brought  nothing  back  in  his  memory,  and  there 
is  no  account  whatever  of  his  adventures  there. 
It  has  been  stated  that  Mary  Lamb  was  taken 
ill  on  the  road ;  but  I  do  not  know  this  with 
certainty.     From  a  short  letter  to  Barron  Field, 


2o6  LETTElt    TO   BARRON  FIELD. 

it  appears,  indeed,  tliat  he  thouglit  Paris  "  a 
glorious  i^icturcsque  old  city,"  to  which  London 
looked  "  mean  and  new,"  although  the  former 
had  "  no  Saint  Paul's  or  Westminster  Ahbey." 
"•  I  and  sister,"  he  AVTites,  "  arc  just  returned 
iVoni  Paris.  We  have  eaten  frogs !  It  has 
been  such  a  treat !  Nicest  little  delicate  things  ; 
like  Lilliputian  rabbits.  But  this  is  all.  His 
Reminiscences,  whatever  they  were,  do  not  en- 
rich his  correspondence.  In  conversation  he 
used  to  tell  how  he  had  once  intended  to  ask  the 
waiter  for  an  cg^  (ocuf),  but  called,  in  his  ig- 
norance, for  Eau  dc  vie,  and  that  the  mistake 
produced  so  pleasant  a  result,  that  his  inquiries 
afterwards  for  Eau  de  vie  were  very  frequent. 

In  his  travels  to  Cambridge,  which  began  to 
be  frequent  about  this  time,  his  gains  were 
greater.  For  tlicre  he  first  became  acquainted 
witli  Miss  Emma  Isola,  for  whom,  as  I  can 
testify,  he  at  all  times  exhibited  the  greatest 
parental  regard.  When  he  and  Mary  Lamb  first 
knew  her,  she  was  a  little  orjihan  girl,  at  school. 


MISS  IS  OLA.  207 

They  invited  her  to  spend  her  holidays  with 
them ;  and  she  went  accordingly :  the  liking 
became  mutual,  and  gradually  deepened  into 
great  affection.  The  visit  once  made  and  so 
much  relished,  became  habitual ;  and  Miss 
Isola's  holidays  were  afterwards  regularly  spent 
at  the  Lambs'  house.  She  used  to  take  long 
walks  with  Charles,  when  his  sister  was  too  old 
and  infirm  to  accompany  him.  Ultimately  she 
was  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  child;  and 
Charles  Lamb,  when  speaking  of  her  (and  he 
did  this  always  tenderly),  used  invariably  to 
call  her  "  Our  Emma."  To  show  how  deep 
his  regard  was,  he  at  one  time  was  invited  to 
engage  in  some  profitable  engagement  (1830) 
whilst  Miss  Isola  was  in  bad  health  ;  but  he  at 
once  replied,  "  Whilst  she  is  in  danger,  and  till 
she  is  out  of  it,  I  feel  that  I  have  no  spirits  for 
an  engagement  of  any  kind."  Some  years  after- 
wards, when  she  became  well,  and  was  about  to 
be  married.  Lamb  writes, "  I  am  about  to  lose  my 
only  walk  companion,"  whose  mirthful  spiiits 


2o8  MISS  I  SOLA. 

(as  he  prettily  terms  it)  were  "  the  youth  of  our 
house."  "  With  my  perfect  approval,  and  more 
than  concurrence,"  as  he  states,  she  was  to  be 
married  to  Mr.  Moxon.  Miss  Emma  Isola,  who 
was,  in  Charles  Lamb's  phrase,  "  a  very  dear 
friend  of  ours, "  remained  his  friend  till  death, 
and  l)ccame  eventually  his  principal  legatee. 
After  her  marriage,  Charles,  writing  to  her 
husband  (November,  1833),  says,  "Tell  Emma 
I  every  day  love  her  more,  and  miss  her  less. 
Tell  her  so,  from  her  loving  Uncle,  as  she  has 
let  me  call  myself."  It  was,  as  I  believe,  a  very 
deep  paternal  alTection. 

The  particulars  disclosed  by  the  letters  of 
1833  and  1824  are  so  generally  unimportant, 
that  it  is  imnecessary  to  refer  to  them.  Lamb, 
jndeed,  became  acquainted  with  tlie  author  of 
"Virginius"  (Sheridan  Knowles),  with  Mr. 
Macrcady,  antl  with  the  writers  in  the  ''  Lon- 
don ^fagazinc "  (which  then  had  not  been  long 
established).  And  he  appears  gradually  to  dis- 
cover that  his  work  at  the  India  House  is  wea- 


LETTER   TO   WORDSWORTH.  209 

risome,  and  complains  of  it  in  bitter  terms : 
"  Thirty  years  have  I  served  the  Philistines " 
(he  writes  to  Wordsworth),  "and  my  neck  is 
not  subdued  to  the  yoke."  He  confesses  that 
he  had  once  hoped  to  have  a  pension  on  "  this 
side  of  absolute  incapacity  and  infirmity,"  and 
to.  have  walked  out  in  the  "  fine  Isaac  Walton 
mornings,  careless  as  a  beggar,  and  walking, 
walking,  and  dying  walking  ;  "  but  he  says,  "  the 
hope  is  gone.  I  sit  like  Philomel  all  day  (but 
not  singing),  with  my  breast  against  this  thorn 
of  a  desk." 

The  character  of  his  letters  at  this  time  is 
not  generally  lively ;  there  is,  he  says,  "  a 
certain  deadncss  to  everything,  which  I  think 
I  may  date  from  poor  John's  (his  brother's) 
loss.  Deaths  overset  one.  Then  there's  Cap- 
tain Burney  gone.  What  fun  has  whist  now?" 
He  proceeds,  "  I  am  made  tip  of  queer  points. 
My  theory  is  to  enjoy  life ;  but  my  practice 
is  against  it."  The  only  hope  he  has,  he 
says,  is,  "  that  some  pulmonary  affection  may 
H 


2IO  QU^LRIiEL   WITH  SOUTUEY. 

relieve  me."  The  success  which  attended  the 
"  EHa  "  Essays  did  not  comfort  him,  nor  the 
(pecuniary)  temptations  of  the  bookseller  to 
renew  tliom.  ''  The  spirit  of  the  thin<^  in  my 
own  mind  is  j^one "  (he  writes).  "Some 
brains,"  as  Ben  Jonson  says,  "  will  endure  but 
one  skimming."  Not\vithstanding  his  melan- 
choly humor,  however,  there  is  Hope  in  the 
distance,  which  he  docs  not  see,  and  Freedom 
is  not  far  olT. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  Lamli's  life 
(1S23)  that  the  cjuarrcl  between  him  and  his 
old  friend  Robert  vSouthey  took  place.  Southcy 
had  long  been  (as  was  well  known)  one  of  the 
most  constant  and  efficient  contributors  to  the 
"  Qiiarterly  Review ;  "  and  Lamb  assigned  to 
him  the  authorship  of  one  of  the  Review  ar- 
ticles, in  which  he  himself  was  scantily  com- 
plimented, and  his  friends  Ila/litt  and  Leigh 
Hunt  denounced.  Sir  T.  Talfnurd  tliinks  that 
!Mr.  Southey  was  not  the  author  of  the  (^llend- 
ing  essay.     Be  that  as   it  may.   Lamb  was  then 


LETTER   TO   SOU  THEY.  211 

of  opinion  that  his  old  Tory  friend  was  the 
enemy.  In  a  letter  to  Bernard  Barton  (July, 
1S33)  he  writes,  "  Southey  has  attacked  '  Elia ' 
on  the  score  of  infidelity.  He  might  have 
spared*  an  old  friend.  I  hate  his  Review,  and 
his  being  a  Reviewer ;  "  but  he  adds,  "  I  love 
and  respect  Southey,  and  will  not  retort." 
However,  in  the  end,  iiTitated  by  the  calumny, 
or  (which  is  more  probable)  resenting  compli- 
ments bestowed  on  himself  at  the  expense  of 
his  friends,  he  sat  down  and  penned  his 
famous  "  Letter  of  Elia  to  Robert  Southey, 
Esq.,"  which  appeared  in  the  "  London  Mag- 
azine" for  October,  1823,  and  which  was 
afterwards  published  amongst  his  collected  let- 
ters. 

This  letter,  I  remember,  produced  a  strong 
sensation  in  literary  circles ;  and  Mr.  South- 
ey's  acquaintances  smiled,  and  his  enemies 
rejoiced  at  it.  Indeed,  the  letter  itself  is  a 
remarkable  document.  With  much  of  Lamb's 
peculiar  phraseology,  it  is   argumentative,    and 


213    INTIMACY   WITH   SifUTlIFA-   RESEWFJ). 

defends  the  imaginary  weaknesses  or  faults, 
against  which  (as  he  guesses)  the  "  Quarterly 'V 
reproofs  had  been  levelled.  The  occasion  hav- 
ing gone  by,  this  letter  has  been  dismissed 
from  most  minds,  except  that  part  of  it  which 
exhibits  Lamb's  championship  on  behalf  of 
Hunt  and  Ilazlitt,  and  which  is  more  touch- 
ing than  anything  to  be  found  in  controversial 
literature. 

Lamb's  letter  was  unknown  to  his  sister 
until  after  it  appeared  in  the  Magazine,  it  be- 
ing his  practice  to  write  his  letters  in  Leaden- 
hall  vStreet.  It  caused  her  a  good  deal  of 
annoyance  when  she  saw  it  in  print.  It  is 
pleasant  to  think,  however,  that  it  was  the 
means  of  restoring  the  old  intimacy  between 
Southey  and  Lamb,  and  also  of  strengthening 
the  friendship  between  Lamb  and  Ilazlitt, 
which  some  misunderstanding,  at  that  time, 
had  a  little  loosened. 

When  I  was  married  (October,  1S24),  Lamb 
sent  mc  a  congratulatory  letter,  which,  as  it  was 


LETTER   TO  'PROCTER.  213 

not  published  by  Sir  T.  Talfourd,  and  is,  more- 
over, characteristic,  I  insert  here,  from  the  MS. 

"  My  Dear  Procter  :  I  do  agnize  a 
shame  in  not  having  been  to  pay  my  congrat- 
ulations to  Mrs.  Procter  and  your  happy  self; 
but  on  Sunday  (my  only  morning)  I  w^as  en- 
gaged to  a  country  walk ;  and  in  virtue  of 
the  hypostatical  union  between  us,  when  Mary 
calls,  it  is  understood  that  I  call  to'o,  we  being 
univocal. 

"  But  indeed  I  am  ill  at  these  ceremonious 
inductions.  I  fancy  I  was  not  born  with  a 
call  on  my  head,  though  I  have  brought  one 
down  upon  it  with  a  vengeance.  I  love  not  to 
pluck  that  sort  of  frail  crude,  but  to  stay  its 
ripening  into  visits.  In  probability  Mary  will 
be  at  Southampton  Row  this  morning,  and 
something  of  that  kind  be^  matured  between 
you ;  but  in  any  case  not  many  hours  shall 
elapse  before  I  shake  you  by  the  hand. 

"  Meantime    give    my  kindest  felicitations  to 


214  LETTER   TO  riiOCTER. 

Mrs.  Procter,  and  assure  lier  1  look  forward 
\vith  the  greatest  deliglit  to  our  acquaintance. 
By  the  way,  the  deuce  a  bit  of  cake  has 
come  to  hand,  which  hath  an  inauspicious 
look  at  first ;  but  I  comfort  myself  that  that 
Mysterious  Service  hatli  the  property  of  Sac- 
ramental Bread,  whicli  mice  cannot  nibble, 
nor  time  moulder. 

''  I  am  married  m3-sclf —  to  a  severe  step- 
wife —  who  keeps  me,  not  at  lied  and  board, 
but  at  desk  and  board,  and  is  jealous  of  my 
morning  aberrations.  I  cannot  slip  out  to 
congratulate  kinder  unions.  It  is  well  she 
leaves  me  alone  f)'  nights  —  the  d — d  Day-hag 
Jiusincss.  She  is  even  now  peeping  over  me 
to  see  I  am  writing  no  Love  Letters.  I  come, 
my  dear  —  Where  is   the  Indigo  Sale   Book? 

"  Twenty    adieus,    my   dear   friends,   till   we 

meet. 

"  Yours  most  truly, 

"C.   Lamb. 

"-^  Lcadcnhall,  Nov.   ii///,  '24." 


LEAVES  INDIA  BOUSE.  215 

The  necessity  for  labor  continued  for  some 
short  time  longer.  At  last  (in  the  beginning 
of  the  year  1835)  deliverance  came.  Charles 
had  previously  intimated  his  wish  to  resign. 
The  Directors  of  the  East  India  House  call 
him  into  their  private  room,  and  after  compli- 
menting him  on  his  long  and  meritorious  ser- 
vices, they  suggest  that  his  health  does  not 
appear  to  be  good ;  that  a  little  ease  is  expe- 
dient at  his  time  of  life,  and  they  then  con- 
clude their  conversation  by  suddenly  intimat- 
ing their  intention  of  granting  him  a  pension, 
for  his  life,  of  two  thirds  of  the  amount  of  ■ 
his  salary ;  "  a  magnificent  offer,"  as  he  terms 
it.  He  is  from  that  moment  emancipated ; 
let  loose  from  all  ties  of  labor,  free  to  fly 
wheresoever  he  will.  At  the  commencement 
of  the  talk  Charles  had  had  misgivings,  for  he 
was  summoned  into  the  "  formidable  back 
parlor,"  he  says,  and  thought  that  the  Direc- 
tors were  about  to  intimate  that  they  had  no 
further  occasion   for  his    services.      The  whole 


2i6  ANNUITY. 

scene  seems  like  one  of  the  summer  sunsets, 
preceded  b}-  threatcnings  of  tempest,  when  the 
dark  piles  of  clouds  are  separated  and  disap- 
pear, lost  and  swallowed  by  the  ratliance  which 
fills  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  sky, 
and  looks  as  if  it  would  be  eternal.  "  I  don't 
know  what  I  answeixd,"  Lamb  says,  "  between 
surprise  and  gratitude  ;  but  it  was  understood 
that  I  accepted  their  proposal,  and  I  was  told 
that  I  was  free  from  that  hour  to  leave  their 
service.  I  stammered  out  a  l)ow,  and,  at  just 
ten  minutes  after  eight,  1  went  home  —  for- 
ever." 

At  this  time  Lamb's  salary  was  six  hundred 
pounds  per  annum.  The  amount  of  two  thirds 
of  this  sum,  therefore,  would  lie  an  annuity  of 
four  hundred  pounds.  But  an  annual  provision 
was  also  made  for  his  sister,  in  case  she  should 
sur\ive  him  ;  and  this  occasioned  a  small  dim- 
inution. Li  exact  figures,  he  was  to  receive  three 
hundred  and  ninety-one  pounds  a  year  during 
the  remainder  of  his  life,  and  then  an  annuity 


LEISURE.  217 

was  to  become  payable  to  Mary  Lamb.  His 
sensations,  first  of  stupefaction,  and  afterwards 
of  measureless  delight,  will  be  seen  by  reference 
to  his  exulting  letters  of  this  period.  First  he 
writes  to  Wordsworth  of  "  the  good  that  has 
befallen  me."  These  are  his  words :  "  I  came 
home  —  forever  —  on  Tuesday  last.  The  incom- 
prehensibleness  of  my  condition  ovei"whelmed 
me.  It  was  like  passing  from  Time  into  Eter- 
nity." *  *  *  "  Mary  wakes  every  morning  with 
an  obscure  feeling  that  some  good  has  happened 
to  us."  —  To  Bernard  Barton  his  words  are,  "  I 
have  scarce  steadiness  of  head  to  compose  a  let- 
ter. I  am  free,  B.  B. ;  free  as  air.  I  will  live 
another  fifty  yeai's."  *  *  *  "Would  I  could 
sell  you  some  of  my  leisure !  Positively  the 
best  thing  a  man  can  have, to  do  is  —  Nothing: 
and  next  to  that,  perhaps.  Good  Works."  —  To 
Miss  Hutchinson  he  writes,  "  I  would  not  go 
back  to  my  prison  for  seven  years  longer  for 
ten  thousand  povmds  a  year.  For  some  days  I 
was  staggered,  and  could  not  comprehend  the 


3iS  "  NOTIIIXG    TO   DOr 

magnitude  of  my  deliverance  —  was  confused, 
giddy.  But  these  giddy  feelings  have  gone 
a\\-ay,  and  my  weather-glass  stands  at  a  degree 
or  two  above  '  Context.'  All  being  holidays, 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  none  ;  as  they  do  in  heaven, 
where  'tis  all  Red  Letter  days." 

Lamb's  discharge  or  relief  was  timely  and 
graciously  bestowed.  It  opened  a  bright  vista 
through  which  he  beheld  (in  hope)  many  years 
of  enjoyment;  scenes  in  which  his  spirit,  res- 
cued from  painful  work,  had  only  to  disport 
itself  in  endless  delights.  He  had  well  earned 
his  discharge.  lie  had  labored  without  cessa- 
tion for  thirty-three  years ;  had  been  diligent, 
and  trusted  —  a  laborer  worthy  of  his  hire. 
And  the  consciousness  of  this  long  and  good 
service  must  have  mingled  with  his  reward  and 
sweetened  it.  Il  is  a  great  thing  to  have  earned 
your  meal  —  your  rest,  —  whatever  may  be  the 
payment  in  full  ff)r  your  deserts.  You  have  not 
to  force  up  gratitude  from  oblivious  depths,  day 
by  day,  for  undeserved  bounty.     In  Lamb's  case 


"NOTHING   TO  DO."  219 

it  happened,  unfortunately,  that  the  activity  of 
mind  which  had  procured  his  repose,  tended 
afterwards  to  disqualify  him  from  enjoying  it. 
The  leisure,  that  he  had  once  reckoned  on  so 
much,  exceeded,  when  it  came,  the  pains  of 
the  old  counting-house  travail.  It  is  only  the 
imbecile,  or  those  brought  up  in  complete  lazi- 
hood,  who  can  encounter  successfully  the  mo- 
notony of  "  nothing  to  do,"  and  can  slumber 
away  their  lives  unharmed  amongst  the  dumb 
weeds  and  flowers. 

In  the  course  of  a  short  time  it  appeared  that 
he  was  unable  to  enjoy,  so  perfectly  as  he  had 
anticipated,  his  golden  time  of  "  Nothing  to  do," 
his  Liberia.  He  therefore  took  long  walks  into 
the  countiy.  He  also  acquired  the  companion- 
ship of  the  large  dog  Dash,  much  given  to 
wandering,  to  whose  erratic  propensities  (Lamb 
walking  at  the  rate  of  fourteen  miles  a  day)  he 
eventually  became  a  slave.  The  rambling,  in- 
constant dog  rendered  the  clear,  serene  day  of 
leisure    almost    turbid ;    and    he   was   ultimately 


220  FONDNESS  FOB   WALKING. 

(in  order  to  preserve  for  Charles  some  little 
remaining  enjoyment)  bestowed  upon  another 
master.  Lamb  was  always  (as  I  have  said) 
fond  of  walking,  and  he  had  sonic  vague  liking, 
I  suppose,  for  free  air  and  green  pastures  ;  al- 
though he  had  no  great  relish  specially  for  the 
flowers  and  ornaments  of  the  country.  I  have 
often  walked  with  him  in  the  neighborhood  of 
our  great  city  ;  and  I  do  not  think  that  he  ever 
treasured  up  in  his  memory  the  violets  (or  other 
flowers),  the  songs  of  birds,  or  the  pictures  of 
sheep  or  kiue  dotting  the  meadows.  Neither 
his  conversation  nor  writings  aflbrded  evidence 
that  he  had  done  so.  It  is  not  easy,  therefore, 
to  determine  what  the  special  attractions  were 
that  drew  him  out  of  London,  which  he  loved, 
into  the  adjoining  country,  where  his  walks 
oftenest  lay. 

At  the  time  of  Lamb's  deliverance  from  office 
labor,  he  was  living  in  Colebrook  Row.  It  was 
there  that  (jcf)rge  Dyer,  \\  h(jse  bUudness  and 
absence    of   mind    rendered    it   ahnosl   dangerous 


DYER.  221 

for  him  to  wander  unaccompanied  about  the 
suburbs  of  London,  came  to  visit  him  on  one 
occasion.  By  accident,  instead  of  entering  the 
house  door.  Dyer's  aqueous  instincts  led  him 
towards  the  water,  and  in  a  moment  he  had 
plunged  overhead  in  the  New  River.  I  hap- 
pened to  go  to  Lamb's  house,  about  an  hour 
after  his  rescue  and  restoration  to  dry  land,  and 
met  Miss  Lamb  in  the  passage,  in  a  state  of 
great  alarm :  she  was  whimpering,  and  could 
only  utter,  "  Poor  Mr.  Dyer !  Poor  Mr.  Dyer !  " 
in  tremulous  tones.  I  went  up  stairs,  aghast, 
and  found  that  the  involuntary  diver  had  been 
placed  in  bed,  and  that  Miss  Lamb  had  admin- 
istered brandy  and  water,  as  a  well-established 
preventive  against  cold.  Dyer,  unaccustomed 
to.  anything  stronger  than  the  "  crystal  spring," 
was  sitting  upright  in  the  bed,  perfectly  deliri- 
ous. His  hair  had  been  rubbed  up,  and  stood 
out  like  so  many  needles  of  iron  gray.  He  did 
not  (like  Falstaff)  "  babble  of  green  fields,"  but 
of  the  "  watery  Neptune."     "  I  soon  found  out 


2  22  "AUICUS  EEDlVnUS." 

where  I  was,"  he  cried  out  to  me,  hiughhig ; 
and  then  he  went  wandering  on,  his  words 
taking  flight  into  regions  where  no  one  could 
follow.  Charles  Lamb  has  commemorated  this 
immersion  of  his  old  friend,  in  his  (Elia)  essay 
of  "  Amicus  Rcdivivus." 

In  tlic  summer  of  1S26  Lamb  published,  in 
"  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  a  little  drama  in  one 
act,  entitled  "The  Wife's  Trial."  It  was 
founded  on  Crabbe's  poetical  tale  of  "  The 
Confidant ; "  and  contains  the  germ  of  a  plot, 
which  und()ul)lctll\-  ini^ht  ha\e  been  worked  out 
with  more  elVect,  if  Lamb  had  devoted  suflicient 
labor  to  that  object. 

Amongst  tlie  remarkable  persons  whom 
Charles  became  acquainted  with,  in  these 
years,  was  Edward  Irving.  Lamb  used  to 
meet  him  at  Coleridge's  house  at  Highgate, 
and  elsewhere  ;  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  (as  indeed  he  tvas^  a  fine,  sin- 
cere, spirited  man,  terribly  .slandered.  Edward 
Iiaiiil;,   wliw     is^uetl.   like    a    suiUleii    li_;hl,   fioni 


lEVINO.  223 

the  obscure  little  town  of  Annan,  in  Scotland, 
acquired,  in  the  year  1822,  a  wide  reputation 
in  London.  He  was  a  minister  of  the  Scotch 
Church,  and  before  he  came  to  England  had 
acted  as  an  assistant  pi"eacher  to  Dr.  Chal- 
mers. In  one  of  Charles's  letters  (in  1835) 
to  Bernard  Barton  (who  had  evidently  been 
measuring  Irving  by  a  low  Qimker  standard), 
he  takes  the  opportunity  of  speaking  of  the 
great  respect  that  he  entertained  for  the  Scotch 
minister.  "  Let  me  adjure  you "  (writes 
Charles),     "have    no    doubt    of    Irving.      Let 

Mr.  [?]    drop    his    disrespect."    "Irving 

has  prefixed  a  dedication,  of  a  missionary 
character,  to  Coleridge  —  most  beautiful,  cor- 
dial, and  sincere.  He  there  acknowledges 
his  obligations  to  S.  T.  C,  at  whose  Gama- 
liel feet  he  sits  weekly,  rather  than  to  all 
men  living."  Again  he  writes,  "  Some  friend 
said  to  Ii-ving,  '  This  will  do  you  no  good ' 
(no  good  in  worldly  repute).  '•That  is  a 
reason  for    domg   it^     quoth    Irving.      I   am 


224 


IL'VIXd. 


thoroughly  pleased  with  him.  He  is  (inn, 
out-speaking,  intrepid,  and  docile  as  a  pupil 
of  Pythagoras."  In  April,  1S25,  Lamb  writes 
to  Wordsworth  to  the  same  cHect.  "  Have 
you  read  the  noble  dedication  of  Irving's 
Missionary  Sermons?"  he  inquires;  and  then 
he  repeats  Irving's  fine  answer  to  the  sug- 
gested impolicy  of  publishing  his  book  with 
its  sincere  prefix. 

Poor  Edward  Irving !  whom  I  always  deeply 
respected,  and  knew  intimately  for  some 
years,  and  who  was  one  of  the  best  and 
truest  men  whom  it  has  been  my  good  for- 
tune to  meet  in  life !  He  entered  London 
amidst  the  shouts  of  his  admirers,  and  he  de- 
parted in  the  midst  of  contumely ;  sick,  and 
sad,  and  maligned,  and  misunderstood ;  going 
back  to  his  dear  native  Scotland  only  to  die. 
The  time  has  long  passed  for  discussing  the 
truths  or  errors  of  Edward  Irving's  peculiar 
creed ;  but  there  caji  be  no  doubt  tliat  he 
himself   was    true    and   faithful   till   death,     and 


IRVING.  225 

that  he  preached  only  what  he  entirely  be- 
lieved. And  what  can  man  do  more?  If  he 
was  wrong,  his  errors  arose  from,  his  extreme 
modesty,  his  extreme  veneration  for  the  sub- 
ject to  which  he  raised   his   thoughts. 

In  the  last  year  of  Edward  Irving's  life 
(1834),  ^''^  was  counselled  by  his  physician 
to  pass  the  next  winter  in  a  milder  climate  — 
that  "  it  was  the  only  safe  thing  for  him." 
Prevented  from  ministering  in  his  own  church, 
where  "  he  had  become  an  embarrassment," 
he  travels  into  the  rural  places,  subdued  and 
chastened  by  his  weakness,  —  to  the  Wye 
and  the  Severn  —  to  the  fine  mountains  and 
pleasant  places  of  Wales.  Sometimes  he 
thinks  himself  better.  He  quits  London  (for- 
ever) in  the  early  part  of  September,  and  on 
the  23d  of  that  month  he  writes  to  his  wife 
that  he  is  "  surely  better,  for  his  fiiilse  has 
come  to  be  under  100."  He  passes  by  Cader 
Idris,  and  Snowdon  —  by  Bedgelert  to  Ban- 
gor, "  a  place  of  repose  ; "  but  gets  wet  whilst 
15 


226  IliVINO. 

viewing  the  Menai  Bridge,  and  had  "  a  fevered 
niglit;"  yet  he  is  able  to  droop  on  to  Liver- 
pool. Thence  (the  love  of  his  "native  land 
drawing  him  on)  he  goes  northwards,  instead 
of  to  tlie  south.  lie  reaches  Glasgow,  where 
"  he  thinks  of  organizing  a  cliurch  ;  "  although 
Dr.  Darling  "  decidedly  says  that  he  cannot 
humanly  live  over  the  winter."  Yet  he  still 
goes  on  with  his  holy  task  ;  he  writes  "  pasto- 
ral letters,"  and  preaches,  and  jirays,  and 
ofiers  kind  advice.  His  friends,  from  Kirk- 
caldy and  elsewhere,  come  to  see  liim,  where, 
"  for  a  few  weeks  still,  he  is  visible,  about 
Glasgow.  In  the  sunshine  —  in  a  lonely  street, 
his  gaunt,  gigantic  figure  rises  feebly  against 
the  light."  At  last  lie  lies  down  on  "  the  bed 
from  which  he  is  never  to  rise ;  "  his  mind 
wanders,  and  liis  articulation  becomes  indis- 
tinct ;  but  he  is  occasional))  uii<lcrstood,  and 
is  heard  miununiiig  (in  Hebrew)  parts  of 
the  23d  Psalm,  "  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd : 
He  leadeth   me   besitle  the  still   waters."      And 


IRVING.  237 

thus  gradually  sinking,  at  the  close  of  a 
gloomy    Sunday    night    in    December,    he    dies. 

Mr.  Thomas  Carlyle,  his  friend  (the  friend 
of  his  youth),  has  written  an  eloquent  epi- 
taph upon  him ;  not  partial,  for  they  differed 
in  opinion  —  but  eloquent,  and  very  touching. 
I  read  it  over  once  or  twice  in  every  year. 
Edward  Irving's  last  words,  according  to  his 
statement,  were,  "  In  life  and  in  death  I  am 
the  Lord's."  Carlyle  then  adds,  "  But  for 
Irving,  I  had  never  known  what  the  com- 
munion of  man  with  man  means.  He  was 
the  freest,  brotherliest,  bravest  human  soul 
mine  ever  came  in  contact  with  ;  the  best  man 
I  have  ever  (after  trial  enough)  found  in  this 
world,  or  now  hope  to  find." 

So  Edward  Irving  went  to  the  true  and 
brave  enthusiasts  who  have  gone  before  him. 
He  died  on  his  final  Sabbath  (7th  December, 
1834),  and  left  the  world  and  all  its  troubles 
behind  him. 


(    228    ) 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Specimen  of  Lamb's  HuDwr.  —  Death  of 
Air.  Norris.  —  Garrick  Plays.  —  Letters  to 
ISarton. — Opinions  on  Books. —  Ureakfast 
ivit/i  Mr.  X.  P.  M'il/is.  — Moves  to  En- 
Jiehi. — Caricature  of  Lamb. —  Albums  and 
Acrostics.  —  Paifis  of  Incisure.  —  The  /3ar- 
to7i     Correspondoice.  —  Death     of    JIazlitt. 

—  Mundcfi's'  Acting  and  S^uitting  the 
Stajrc.  —  Lamb  becomes  a  Boarder.  — 
Moves  to  Edmonton.  —  Metropolitan  At- 
tachments. —  Death  of  Coleridge.  —  L^amb's 
Fall  and  Death.  —  Death  of  J/ary  Lamb. 

—  POSTSCRIPT. 

WITH  the  expiration  of  the  "London 
Mat^azine,"  Lamb's  literary  career 
terminated.  A  few  trillinj^  contril)utions  to 
the  "  New  Mcjnthly,"  and  other  pcriixhcals, 
are  scarcely  snUicicnl  to  cjnalify  this  statement. 
It  may  be  convenient,  in  tliis  jilace,  to 
specify     some     of    those,  examples    of    Inimor 


LAMB'S  HUMOR.  229 

and  of  jocose  speech  for  which  Charles 
Lamb  in  his  lifetime  was  well  known.  These 
(not  his  best  thoughts)  can  be  separated 
from  the  rest,  and  may  attract  the  notice  of 
the  reader,  here  and  there,  and  relieve  the 
tameness   of  a  not   very  eventful    narrative. 

It  is  possible  to  define  wit  (which,  as  Mr. 
Coleridge  says,  is  "impersonal"),  and  hu- 
mor also ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish 
the  humor  of  one  man  from  that  of  all  other 
humorists,  so  as  to  bring  his  special  quality 
clearly  before  the  apprehension  of  the  reader. 
Perhaps  the  best  (if  not  the  most  scientific) 
way  might  be  to  produce  specimens  of  each. 
In  Charles  Lamb's  case,  instances  of  his  humor 
are  to  be  found  hi  his  essays,  in  his  sayings 
(already  partially  reported),  and  throughout 
his  letters,  where  they  are  very  frequent. 
They  are  often  of  the  composite  order,  in 
which  humor,  and  wit,  and  (sometimes)  pathos 
are  intermingled.  Sometimes  they  merely  ex- 
hibit die  character  of  the'  man. 


230  LAMB'S   SAYlXaS. 

He  once  said  of  himself  that  his  biopfraphy  . 
"  would  go  into  an  epigram."  His  sayings 
require  greater  space.  Some  of  those  whicli 
have  been  circulated  are  apocryphal.  The 
following  are  taken  chiefly  from  his  letters, 
and  from  my  own  recollections. 

In  his  exultation  on  being  released  from  his 
thirty-four  years  of  labor  at  the  India  House, 
he  says,  "  Had  I  a  little  son,  I  would  christen 
him  'Nothing  to  do.'"  (This  is  in  the  "Su- 
perannuated Man.") 

Speaking  of  Don  Qjiixotc,  he  calls  liim  "  the 
errant  Star  of  Knighthood,  made  more  tender 
by  eclipse." 

On  being  asked  by  a  schoolmistress  for  some 
sign  indicative  of  lier  calling,  he  recommended 
"  The  Murder  of  the  Innocents." 

I  once  said  something  in  his  presence 
wliicli  I  tliought  possessed  smartness.  He 
commended  me  with  a  slannner :  "Very  well, 
my   dear  boy,  very  well ;   Ben  (taking  a  jiinch 

« 


LAMB'S  SAYINGS.  231 

of  snuff),  Ben  Jonson  has  said  worse  things 
than  that — and  b — ^b — ^better."  * 

His  young  chimney-sweepers,  "  from  their 
little  pulpits  (the  tops  of  chimneys)  in  the 
nipping  air  of  a  December  morning,  preach  a 
lesson  of  patience  to  mankind." 

His  saying  to  Martin  Burney  has  been 
often  repeated  —  "  O  Martin,  if  dirt  were 
trumps,  what  a  hand  you  would  hold  ! " 

To  Coleridge :  "  Bless  you,  old  sophist,  who 
next  to  human  nature  taught  me  all  the  cor- 
ruption I  was  capable  of  knowing." 

To  Mr.  Oilman,  a  surgeon  ("  query  Kill- 
man?"),  he  writes,  "Coleridge  is  very  bad, 
but  he  wonderfully  picks  up,  and  his  face, 
when  he  repeats  his  verses,  hath  it's  ancient 
glory  —  an  aixhangel  a  little  damaged." 

To  Wordsworth  (who  was  superfluously 
solemn)    he  writes,  "  Some  d — d  people   have 

*  This,  with  a  snaall  variation,  is  given  in  Mr.  Thomas 
Moore's  autobiography.  I  suppose  I  must  have  repeated 
it  to   hhu,  and  that  he  forgot  the  precise  words. 


232  LAMB'S   SATINOS. 

come  in,  and  I  must  finish  abruptly.  By 
d — d,  I  only  mean  deuced." 

The  second  son  of  George  the  Second,  it 
was  said,  luid  a  very  cold  and  ungenial  man- 
ner. Lamb  stammered  out  in  his  defence 
that  "  this  was  very  natural  in  the  Duke  of 
Cu-Cum-ber-land." 

To  Bernard  Barton,  of  a  person  of  repute: 
*'  There  must  be  something  in  him.  Such 
great  names  imply  greatness.  Which  of  us 
has  seen  Michael  Angelo's  things?  yet  which 
of  us  disbelieves  his  greatness?" 

To  Mrs.  II.,  of  a  person  eccentric  :  "  Why 
does  not  his  guardian  angrl  look  to  him?  lie 
deserves  one  —  may  be  he  has  tired  him  out." 

"  Charfes,"  said  Coleridge  to  Lamb,  ''  I  think 
you  have  heard  me  preach?"  "I  n — n — never 
heard  you  do  anything  else,"  replied  Lamb. 

One  evening  Coleridge  had  consumed  the 
whole  time  in  talking  of  some  "regenerated" 
orthodoxy.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  was  one  of  the 
listeners,  on    leaving    the    house,  expressed    his 


LAMB'S   SAYINGS.  233 

surprise  at  the  iDrodigality  and  intensity  of 
Coleridge's  religious  expressions.  Lamb  tran- 
quillized him  by  "  Ne — ne — never  mind  what 
Coleridge  says ;    he's  full  of  fun." 

There  were,  &c.,  &c,,  "  and  at  the  top  of 
all,  Hunger  (eldest,  strongest  of  the  Passions), 
predominant,  breaking  down  the  stony  fences 
of  shame." 

The  Bank,  the  India  House,  and  other  rich 
traders  look  insultingly  on  the  old  deserted 
South  Sea  House,  as  on  "  their  poor  neighbor 
out  of  business." 

To  a  Frenchman,  setting  up  Voltaire's  char- 
acter in  opposition  to  that  of  Christ,  Lamb 
asserted  that  "  Voltaire  was  a  very  good  Je- 
sus Christ — J^or  the  Frerichy 

Of  a  Scotchman :  "  His  understanding  is 
always  at  its  meridian.  Between  the  affirma- 
tive and  the  negative  there  is  no  border  land 
with  him.  You  cannot  hover  with  him  on 
the  confines  of  truth." 

On  a  book  of  Coleridge's  nephew  he  writes. 


234  LAMB'S   SAYINGS. 

"  I  confess  he  has  more  of  the  Sterne  about 
him  tlian  the  Sternhold.  But  he  saddens  into 
excellent  sense  before  the  conclusion." 

As  to  a  monument  being  erected  for  Clark- 
son,  in  his  lifetime,  he  opposes  it,  and  argues, 
"  Goodness  blows  no  trumpet,  nor  desires  to 
have  it  blown.  We  should  be  modest  for  a 
modest  man." 

"  M.  B.  is  on  the  top  scale  of  my  friend- 
ship's ladder,  which  an  angel  or  two  is  still 
climbing;    and  some,  alas!  descending." 

A  fine  sonnet  of  his  (The  Gipsy's  Malison) 
being  refused  pul)lication,  he  exclaimed,  "  Hang 
the  age  !     I  \vill  write  for  Anti([uity." 

Once,  whilst  waiting  in  the  Ilighgatc  stage, 
a  woman  came  to  the  door,  and  inquired  in  a 
stern  voice,  "Arc  you  quite  full  inside?" 
"•  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Charles,  in  meek  reply, 
"  (juite ;  that  plateful  of  Mrs.  Gilman's  pud- 
ding has  (juite   filled  us." 

Mrs.  K.,  after  expressing  her  love  for  her 
voung    children,     added,    tenderly,    "  And    how 


LAMB'S   SAYINGS.  235 

do  yo2f  like  babies,  Mr.  Lamb  ?  "  His  answer, 
immediate,  almost  precipitate,  was  "  Boi-boi- 
boiled,  ma'am." 

Hood,  tempting  Lamb  to  dine  with  him, 
said,  "  We  have  a  hare."  "  And  many 
friends  ?  "  inquired  Lamb. 

It  being  suggested  that  he  would  not  sit 
down  to  a  meal  with  the  Italian  witnesses  at 
the  Qiieen's  trial,  Lamb  rejected  the  imputa- 
tion, asserting  that  he  would  sit  with  anything 
except  a  hen  or  a  tailor. 

Of  a  man  too  prodigal  of  lampoons  and 
verbal  jokes.  Lamb  said,  threateningly,  "  I'll 
Lamb-pun  him." 

On  two  Prussians  of  the  same  name  being 
accused  of  the  same  crime,  it  Avas  remarked 
as  curious  that  they  were  not  in  any  way 
related  to  each  other.  "  A  mistake,"  said  he  ; 
"  they  are  cozens  german." 

An  old  lady,  fond  of  her  dissenting  minister, 
w^earied  Lamb  by  the  length  of  her  praises.  "  I 
speak,   because  I   know   him   well,"    said    she. 


236  LAMB'S  PUNS. 

"Well,  I  don't;"  replied  Lamb;  "1  don't; 
hut  (1 n  him,  at  a  'venture.'" 

nic  Scotch,  whom  he  did  not  like,  ought, 
he  said,  to  have  double  punishment ;  and  to 
have   inc  ^vithout  brimstone. 

Southcy,  in  1799,  showed  him  a  dull  poem 
on  a  rose.  Lamb's  criticism  was,  "  Your  rose 
is  insipid :   it  has  neither  thorns  nor  sweetness." 

A  person  sending  an  unnecessarily  large  sum 
with  a  lawyer's  brief,  Lamb  said  "  it  was  '  a  fee 
simple.' " 

Mr.  IL  C.  Rol)inson,  just  called  to  the  bar, 
tells  him,  exultingly,  that  he  is  retained  in  a 
cause  in  the  King's  Bench.  "  Ah  "  (said  Lamb), 
"  the  great  first  cause,  least  understood." 

Of  a  pun.  Lamb  says  it  is  a  "  noble  thing 
/>cr  sc.  It  is  entire.  It  fdls  the  mind  ;  it  is  as 
perfect  as  a  sonnet;  better,  ll  limps  asliamed, 
in  the  train  and  retinue  of  humor."  * 

•  I  fear  that  I  have  not,  in  all  the  foregoing  instances, 
BCt  forth  with  Hufficicnt  precision  the  grounds  or  premises 
upon  which  the  jesU*  were  founded.  There  were,  more- 
over, various  other  sayings  of  Lamb,  which  do  not  come 


LAMB'S  PUNS.  237 

Lamb's  puns,  as  far  as  I  recollect,  were  not 
frequent ;  and,  except  in  the  case  of  a  pun,  it  is 
difficult  to  divest  a  good  saying  of  the  facts  sur- 
rounding it  without  impoverishing   the    saying 

into  the  above  catalogue;  as  where  —  when  enjoying  a 
pipe  with  Dr.  Parr,  that  Divine  inquired  how  he  came  to 
acquire  the  love  of  smoking  so  much,  he  replied,  "  I  toiled 
after  it  as  some  people  do  after* virtue."  —  When  Godwin 
was  expatiating  on  the  benefit  of  unlimited  freedom  of 
thought,  especially  in  matters  of  religion,  Lamb,  who  did 
not  like  this,  interrupted  him  by  humming  the  little  child's 
song  of  "Old  Father  Longlegs  won't  say  his  prayers," 
adding,  violently,  '<  Throw  him  dowti  stairs  !  "  —  He  con- 
soles Mr.  Crabbe  Robinson,  suffering  under  tedious  rheu- 
matism, by  writing,  "  Your  doctor  seems  to  keep  you  under 
the  long  cure."  — To  Wordsworth,  in  order  to  explain  that 
his  friend  A  was  in  good  health,  he  writes,  "  A  is  well ;  he 
is  proof  against  weather,  ingratitude,  meat  underdone,  and 
every  weapon  of  fate."  The  story  of  Lamb  replying  to 
some  one,  who  insisted  very  strenuously  on  some  uninter- 
esting circumstances  being  '<  a  matter  of  fact,"  by  saying 
that  he  was  "  a  matter  of  lie  "  man,  is  like  Leigh  Hunt,  who, 
in  opposing  the  frequent  confessions  of  "  I'm  in  love,"  as- 
serted, in  a  series  of  verses,  that  he  was  "In  hate."  — 
Charles  hated  noise,  and  fuss,  and  fine  words,  but  never 
hated  any  person.  Once,  when  he  had  said,  "  I  hate  Z," 
some  one  present  remonstrated  with  him  :  "  Why,  you  have 
never  seen  him."  "  No,"  replied  Lamb,  "  certainly  not ;  I 
never  could  hate  any  man  that  I  have  once  seen."  —  Being 


23S  LAMB'S   PUNS. 

itself.  Lamb's  liumor  is  generally  imbedded  in 
the  surrounding  sense,  and  cannot  often  be  dis- 
entangled without  injury. 

I    have    said    that    the    proprietorship    of  the 

asked  how  he  felt  when  amon<];st  the  lakes  and  mountains 
of  Cumberland,  he  replied  that  he  was  oblij^ed  to  think  of 
the  Ilnm  and  Beef  shop  near  Saint  ^lartin's  Lane ;  this  was 
in  order  to  bring  down  his  thoughts  from  their  almost  too 
painful  elevation  to  the  sober  regions  of  evcry-day  life. 

In  the  foregoing  little  history,  I  have  set  forth  such  facts 
as  tend,  in  my  opinion,  to  illustrate  my  friend's  character. 
One  anecdote  I  have  omitted,  and  it  should  not  be  forgotten. 
Lamb,  one  day,  encountered  a  small  urchin  loaded  with  a 
too  heavy  package  of  grocery.  It  caused  him  to  tremble  and 
stop.  Charles  inquired  where  he  was  going,  took  (although 
weak)  the  load  upon  his  own  shoulder,  and  managed  to 
carry  it  to  Islington,  the  place  of  destination.  Finding  that 
the  purchaser  of  the  grocery  was  a  female,  he  went  with 
the  urchin  before  her,  and  expressed  a  hope  that  she  would 
intercede  with  the  i)oor  boy's  master,  in  order  to  prevent 
his  being  overweighted  in  future.  "Sir,"  said  the  dame, 
after  the  manner  of  Tisiphone,  frowning  upon  him,  "  I  buy 
my  sugar,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  man's  manner  of 
sending  it."  Lamb  at  once  perceived  the  character  of  the 
l)urehaser,  and  taking  off  his  hat,  said,  humbly,  "Then  I 
hope,  ma'am,  you'll  give  me  a  drink  of  small  beer."  This 
was  of  course  refused.  He  afterwards  called  upon  the 
grocer,  on  the  boy's  behalf — with  what  effect  I  do  not 
know. 


DEATH  OF  MR.  NOPJtlS.  239 

"  London  Magazine,"  in  the  year  182 1,  became 
vested  in  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey,  under 
whom  it  became  a  social  centre  for  the  meeting 
of  many  literary  men.  The  publication,  how- 
ever, seems  to  have  interfered  with  the  ordinary 
calling  of  the  booksellers  ;  and  the  sale  was  not 
therefore  (I  suppose)  sufficiently  important  to 
remunerate  them  for  the  disturbance  of  their 
general  trade.  At  all  events,  it  was  sold  to  Mr. 
Henry  Southern,  the  editor  of  "  The  Retrospec- 
tive Review,"  at  the  expiration  of  1825,  after 
having  been  in  existence  during  five  entire 
years.  In  Mr.  Southern's  hands,  under  a  dif- 
ferent system  of  management,  it  speedily  ceased. 
In  1826  (Januar}')  Charles  Lamb  suffered 
great  grief  from  the  loss  of  a  very  old  friend, 
Mr.  Norris.  It  may  be  remembered  that  he 
was  one  of  the  two  persons  who  went  to  com- 
fort Lamb  when  his  mother  so  suddenly  died. 
Mr.  Norris  had  been  one  of  the  officers  of  the 
Inner  Temple  or  Christ's  Hospital,  and  had 
been  intimate  with  the  Lambs  for  many  years ; 


240  THE    (JAlilllCK   I'LAl'S. 

and  Charles,  when  young,  used  always  to  spend 
his  Christmascs  with  him.  "  He  was  my  friend 
and  my  father's  friend,"  Lamb  writes,  "  all  the 
life  I  can  remember.  I  seem  to  have  made 
foolish  friendships  ever  since.  Old  as  I  am, 
in  his  eyes  I  was  still  tlie  child  he  first  knew 
me.  To  the  last  he  called  me  '  Charley.'  I 
have  none  to  call  me  Charley  now.  lie  was 
the  last  link  that  bound  me  to  the  Temple." 

It  was  after  his  death  that  Lamb  once  more 
resorted  to  the  British  Museum,  which  he  had 
l)een  in  the  habit  of  frcc[uenting  formerly,  when 
his  fust  '■'■  Dramatic  Specimens"  were  published. 
Now  he  went  there  to  make  other  extracts  from 
tlie  old  plays.  These  were  entitled  "  The  Gar- 
rick  Plays,"  and  \vere  bestowed  upon  Mr.  Hone, 
who  was  poor,  and  were  by  him  published  in 
his  "  Every  Day  Book."  Subsequently  they 
were  collected  by  Charles  himself,  and  formed 
a  supplement  to  the  earlier  "  Specimens." 
Lamb's  labors  in  this  task  were  by  no  means 
trivial.     ''  I   am  now  going  through  a  course  of 


LETTER    TO  BARTON.  241 

reading"    (of  old    plays),   he  writes;    "I  have 
two  thousand  to  go  through." 

Lamb's  correspondence  with  his  Qiiaker 
friend,  Bernard  Barton  ("  the  busy  B,"  as 
Hood  called  him),  whose  knowledge  of  the 
English  drama  was  confined  to  Shakespeare 
and  Miss  Baillie,  went  on  constantly.  His  let- 
ters to  this  gentleman  comprised  a  variety  of 
subjects,  on  most  of  which  Charles  offers  him 
good  advice.  Sometimes  they  are  less  personal, 
as  where  he  tells  him  that  "  six  hundred  have 
been  sold  of  Hood's  book,  while  Sion's  songs 
do  not  disperse  so  quickly ; "  and  where  he 
enters  (very  ably)  into  the  defects  and  merits 
of  Martin's  pictures,  Belshazzar  and  Joshua, 
and  ventures  an  opinion  as  to  what  Art  should 
and  should  not  be.  He  is  strenuous  in  advis- 
ing him  not  to  forsake  the  Bank  (where  he  is 
a  clerk),  and  throw  himself  on  what  the  chance 
of  employ  by  booksellers  would  afford.  "  Throw 
yourself,  rather,  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  rock, 
headlong  upon  the  iron  spikes.  Keep  to  your 
16 


■y..\2  orrxiONS  on  books. 

bank,  and  your  bunk  will  keep  you.  Trust  not 
to  the  Public,"  he  says.  Then,  referring  to  his 
own  previous  complaints  of  official  toil,  he  adds, 
"  I  retract  ull  my  fond  ccnnplaints.  Look  on 
them  as  lovers'  quarrels.  I  was  but  half  in 
earnest.  Welcome,  dead  timber  of  a  desk  that 
gives  mc  life.  A  little  grumbling  is  wholesome 
for  the  spleen  ;  but  in  my  inner  heart  I  do  ap- 
prove and  embrace  this  our  close  but  unharass- 
ing  way  of  life." 

Lamb's  opinions  on  books,  as  well  as  on  con- 
duct, making  some  deduction  for  his  preference 
of  old  writers,  is  almost  always  sound.  When 
he  is  writing  to  Mr.  Walter  Wilson,  who  is 
editing  De  Foe,  he  says  of  the  famous  author 
of  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  — 

"In  appearance  of  tr7ith  his  works  exceed 
any  works  of  fiction  that  I  am  acquainted  with. 
It  is  perfect  illusion.  It  is  like  reailing  evi- 
dence in  a  court  of  justice.  There  is  all  the 
minute  detail  of  a  log-lxxjk  in  it.  Facts  are 
repeated    in    varying    pluases    till    you    cannot 


OPINIONS   ON  BOOKS.  243 

choose  but  believe  them."  His  liking  for  books 
(rather  than  his  criticism  on  them)  is  shown 
frequently  in  his  letters.  "  O  !  to  forget  Field- 
ing, Steele,  &c.,  and  to  read  'em  new"  he  says. 
Of  De  Foe,  "  His  style  is  everywhere  beautiful, 
but  plain  and  homely."  Again,  he  speaks  of 
"  Fielding,  Smollett,  Sterne,  —  great  Nature's 
stereotypes."  "Milton,"  he  says,  "almost  re- 
quires a  solemn  service  of  music  to  be  played 
before  you  enter  upon  him."  Of  Shenstone  he 
speaks  as  "  the  dear  author  of  the  Schoolmis- 
tress ;  "  and  so  on  from  time  to  time,  as  occasion 
prompts,  of  Bunyan,  Isaac  Walton,  and  Jeremy 
Taylor,  and  Fuller,  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and 
others,  in  affectionate  terms.  These  always  re- 
late to  English  authors.  Lamb,  although  a 
good  Latinist,  had  not  much  of  that  which 
ordinarily  passes  under  the  name  of  Learning. 
He  had  little  knowledge  of  languages,  living 
or  dead.  Of  French,  German,  Italian,  &c.,  he 
knew  nothing ;  and  in  Greek  his  acquirements 
were    very    moderate.     These    children    of    the 


244      BREAKFAST  WITH  MIL    WILLIS. 

tongues  were  never  adopted  by  him  ;  but  in  his 
own  Saxon  English  he  was  a  competent  scholar, 
a  lover,  nice,  discriminative,  and  critical. 

The  most  graphic  account  of  Lamb  at  a 
somewhat  later  period  of  liis  life  appears  in 
Mr.  N.  P.  Willis's  "  Pencillings  by  the  Way." 
lie    had    been    invited    by  a    gentleman    in    the 

Temple,    INIr,     R (Robinson?),    to    meet 

Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister  at  breakfast. 
The  Lambs  lived  at  that  time  "  a  little  way 
out  of  London,  and  were  not  (juite  jHrnclual. 
At  last  they  enter  —  "the  gentleman  in  black 
small-clothes  and  gaiters,  short  and  veiy 
slight  in  person,  his  liead  set  on  his  shoul- 
ders with  a  thoughtful  fonvard  bent,  his  hair 
just  sprinkled  with  gray,  a  beautiful  deep-set 
eye,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  very  indescri- 
bable mouth.  Whether  it  expressed  most 
humor  or  feeling,  good  nature  or  a  kind  of 
whimsical  peevishness,  or  twenty  other  things 
which  passed  over  it  by  turns,  I  cannot  in  the 
least   be  certain." 


BREAKFAST  WITH  MB.    WILLIS.      245 

This  is  Mr.  Willis's  excellent  picture  of 
Lamb  at  that  period.  The  guest  places  a 
large  arm-chair  for  Mary  Lamb ;  Charles  pulls 
it  away,  saying  gravely,  "  Mary,  don't  take  it ; 
it  looks  as  if  you  were  going  to  have  a  tooth 
drawn."  Miss  Lamb  was  at  that  time  very 
hard  of  hearing,  and  Charles  took  advantage 
of  her  temporary  deafness  to  impute  various 
improbabilities  to  her,  which,  however,  were 
so  obvious  as  to  render  any  denial  or  expla- 
nation unnecessary.  Willis  told  Charles  that 
he  had  bought  a  copy  of  the  "Elia"  in 
America,  in  order  to  give  to  a  friend.  "  What 
did  you  give  for  it?"  asked  Lamb.  "About 
seven  and  sixpence."  "  Permit  me  to  pay 
you  that,"  said  Lamb,  counting  out  the  money 
with  earnestness  on  the  table ;  "I  never  yet 
wrote  anything  that  could  sell.  I  am  the 
publisher's  ruin.  My  last  poem  won't  sell, 
—  not  a  copy.  Have  you  seen  it?"  No; 
Willis  had  not.  "  It's  only  eighteenpence, 
and  I'll   give    you  sixpence    towards   it,"    said 


246  MUVEti    TO  ESFIELD. 

Lamb ;  and  he  ilcscribcd  where  Willis  would 
find  it,  "  .sticking  up  in  a  shop  window  in 
the  vStrand."  Lamb  ate  nothing,  but  in- 
(juircd    anxiously    for    some   potted    llsh,    which 

Mr.    R used    to    procure    iuv  him.     There 

was  none  in  the  hcnise  ;  he  therefore  asked  to 
sec  the  cover  i)f  the  pot  whicli  had  contained 
it ;  he  thought  it  would  do  him  good.  It 
was  brought,  and  on  it  was  a  picture  of  the 
lish.  Lamb  kissed  it,  anil  then  left  the  table, 
and  began  to  wander  about  tlie  room,  with 
an   uncertain   step,    ik.c. 

This  visit  must  have  taken  place,  I  suppose, 
at  or  after  the  lime  wlien  Lamb  was  living 
at  Colebrook  Cottage;  and  the  breakfast  took 
place  probably  in  Mr.  Henry  Crabbe  Robin- 
son's chambers  in  tlie  Temple,  where  I  first 
met  Wordsworth. 

In  the  year  1S27  Lamb  moved  into  a  small 
house  at  Enfield,  a  "  gamboge-colored  house," 
lie  calls  it.  where  1  and  (ither  friends  went 
t(;   dine   \silli     him;     but    it    was    too    lar     from 


CARICATURE   OF  LAMB.  247 

London,   except  for  rare  visits.  —  It  was  rather 
before  that  time  that   a  very  clever   caricatui-e 
of    him     had    been     designed      and     engraved 
("  scratched  on  copper,"    as  the    artist    termed 
it)  by  Mr,  Brook  Pulham.      It  is    still    extant; 
and    although    somewhat   ludicrous  and    hyper- 
bolical    in     the     countenance    and     outline,    it 
certainly  renders  a  likeness  of  Charles    Lamb. 
The    nose    is    monstrous,    and    the    limbs    are 
dwarfed  and  attenuated.      Lamb   himself,  in   a 
letter  to  Bernard  Barton    (loth  August,   1827), 
adverts    to   it    in    these    terms :    "  'Tis    a    little 
sixpenny    thing  —  too   like  by   half — in   which 
the   draughtsman    has    done    his   best    to    avoid- 
flattery."      Charles's    hatred    for    annuals    and 
albums  was  continually  breaking   out:    "I   die 
of   albophobia."      "  I   detest   to    appear   in   an 
annual,"   he   writes ;    "I   hate   the    paper,   the 
type,   the   gloss,    the    dandy   plates."       "  Cole- 
ridge   is    too   deep,"    again   he  says,    "  among 
the   prophets,  the   gentleman    annuals."     "  If  I 
take   the    wings    of    the    morning,    and   fly   to 


24S  ACROSTICS. 

the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  there  will 
albums  be."  To  Southey  he  writes  about  this 
time,  "  I  have  gone  lately  into  the  acrostic 
line.  I  fnul  genius  declines  with  mc ;  but  I 
get  clever."  The  reader  readily  appreciates 
the  distinction  which  tlie  humorist  thus 
cleverly  (more  than  cleverly)  makes.  In 
proof  of  his  subdued  quality,  however,  imdcr 
the  acrostical  tyranny,  I  quote  two  little  un- 
published specimens  addressed  to  the  Misses 
Locke,   whom   he    had    never  seen. 

To   M.  L.    [Mary  Locke] 

Must  I  write  with  pen  unwilling, 
And  describe  those  praccs  killing, 
Rightly,   wliich  I   never  saw  ? 
Yc3  —  it  is  the  filbum'a  law. 

Let  mo  then  invention  strain, 

On  your  excelling  grace  to  feign. 

Cold  is  fiction.     I   believe  it 

Kindly  as  I  did  receive  it ; 

Kven  as  I.   F.'s  tongue  did   weave   it. 


PAINS   OF  LEISURE.  249 

To  S.  L.  [Sarah  Locke.] 

Shall  I  praise  a  face  unseen, 
And  extol  a  fancied  mien, 
Have  on   visionary  charm, 
And  from  shadows  take  alarm  ? 
Hatred  hates  without  a  cause, 

Love  may  love  without  applause, 
Or,    without  a  reason  given. 
Charmed  be  Avith  unknown  heaven. 
Keep   the   secret,   though  unmocked, 
Ever  in  your  bosom  Locked. 

After  the  transfer  to  Mr.  Southern  of  the 
"  London  Magazine,"  Lamb  was  prevailed 
upon  to  allow  some  short  papers  to  be  pub- 
lished in  the  "New  Monthly  Magazine." 
They  were  entitled  "  Popular  Fallacies,"  and 
were  subsequently  published  conjointly  with 
the  "Elia  Essays."  He  also  sent  brief  con- 
tributions to  the  "  AtheucEum  "  and  the  "  Eng- 
lishman," and  wrote  some  election  squibs  for 
Serjeant  Wilde,  during  his  then  contest  for 
'^Newark."  But  his  animal  sjDirits  were  not 
so   elastic    as    formerly,    when    his    time    was 


250  PAINS    OF  LEISURE. 

divided  between  official  work  and  companion- 
able leisure  ;  the  latter  acting  as  a  wholesome 
relief  to   his    mind    when    wearied  by   labor. 

On  this  subject  hear  liim  speaking  to  Ber- 
nard IJarton,  to  wliom,  as  to  others,  he  had 
formerly  complained  of  his  harassing  duties 
at  tlie  Intlia  House,  and  of  his  delightful  pros- 
pect of  leisure.  Now  he  writes,  "  Deadly 
long  are  the  days,  with  but  half  an  hour's 
candle-light  and  no  fire-light.  The  streets,  the 
shops  remain,  but  (jUI  friends  are  gone."  "I 
assure  you  "  (he  goes  on)  ''  ?io  work  is  worse 
than  overwork.  The  mind  preys  on  itself — 
the  most  unwholesome  food.  I  have  ceased  to 
care  alnK)st  for  anybody."  To  remedy  this 
tedium,  he  tries  visiting ;  for  tlie  houses  of 
his  old  friends  were  always  open  to  him, 
and  he  had  a  welcome  everywhere.  But  this 
visiting  will  not  rc\  ive  him.  His  spirits  de- 
scended to  zero  —  ]>elow  it.  He  is  convinced 
that  happiness  is  not  to  be  found  aliroad.  It 
is  better  to    go    "  to    mv   hole    at    Enfield,  and 


PAINS   OF  LEISURE.  251 

hide  like  a  sick  cat  in  my  corner."  Again  he 
says,  "  Home,  I  have  none.  Never  did  the 
waters  of  heaven  pour  down  on  a  forlorner 
head.  What  I  can  do,  and  overdo,  is  to  walk. 
I  am  a  sanguinary  murderer  of  time.  But  the 
snake  is  vitaL     Your  forlorn  —  C.   L." 

These  are  his  meditations  in  1829,  four  years 
only  after  he  had  rushed  abroad,  full  of  exal- 
tation and  delight,  from  the  prison  of  a  "  woi-k- 
a-day"  life,  into  the  happy  gardens  of  bound- 
less leisure.  Time,  which  was  once  his  friend, 
had  become  his  enemy.  His  letters,  which 
were  always  full  of  goodness,  generally  full  of 
cheerful  humor^  sink  into  discontent.  "  I  have 
killed  an  hour  or  two  with  this  poor  scrawl," 
he  writes.  It  is  unnecessary  to  inflict  upon 
the  reader  all  the  points  of  the  obvious 
moral  that  obtrudes  itself  at  this  period  of 
Charles  Lamb's  history.  It  is  clear  that  the 
Otiosa  Eternitas  was  pressing  upon  his  days, 
and  he  did  not  know  how  to  find  relief.  Al- 
though   a    good    Latin    scholar,  —  indeed,    fond 


253       r//A'   r.AUTON  CORRESPONDENCE. 

of  writing  letters  in  Latin,  —  he  did  not  at 
this  period  re.'^ort  to  classical  literature.  I 
heard  liim  indeed  once  (and  once  only) 
cjuotc  the  well-known  Latin  verse  from  the 
Gcorgics,  "  O  Fortunatos,"  &c.,  but  generally 
he  showed  himself  careless  about  Greeks  and 
Romans ;  and  when  (as  jSIr.  Isloxon  states) 
"  a  traveller  brought  him  some  acorns  from 
an  ilex  that  grew  over  the  tomi)  of  Virgil, 
he  valued  them  so  little  tliat  he  threw  them 
at  the  hackney  coachmen  as  they  passed  by 
his  window." 

I  have  been  much  impressed  by  Lamb's 
letters  to  Ik-rnard  I'arlon,  which  are  numer- 
ous, and  which,  taken  altogether,  are  equal  to 
any  which  he  has  written.  The  letters  to 
Coleridge  do  not  exhibit  so  much  care  or 
thought ;  nor  those  to  Wordsworth  or  Man- 
ning, nor  to  any  others  of  his  intellectual 
ccjuals.  'J'hesc  correspondents  could  think  and 
sjK'culate  for  themselves,  and  they  were  accord- 
ingly left  to  their  own   resources.       "  The  Vol- 


DEATH  OF  HAZLITT.  253 

sees  have  much  corn."  But  Bernard  Barton 
was  in  a  different  condition ;  he  was  poor. 
His  education  had  been  inferior,  his  range  of 
reading  and  thinking  had  been  very  confined, 
his  knowledge  of  the  English  drama  being 
limited  to  Shakespeare  and  Miss  Baillie.  He 
seems,  however,  to  have  been  an  amiable  man, 
desirous  of  cultivating  the  power,  such  as  it 
was,  which  he  possessed ;  and  Lamb  there- 
fore lavished  upon  him  —  the  poor  Qviaker 
clerk  of  a  Suffolk  banker  —  all  that  his  wants 
or  ambition  required ;  excellent  worldly  coun- 
sel, sound  thoughts  upon  literature  and  art, 
critical  advice  on  his  own  verses,  letters 
which  in  their  actual  value  surpass  the  wealth 
of  many  more  celebrated  collections.  Lamb's 
correspondence  with  Barton,  whom  he  had  first 
known  in  1823,  continued  until   his  death. 

In -1830  (September  i8th)  Hazlitt  died.  It 
is  unnecessary  to  enter  into  any  enumeration 
of  his  remarkable  qualities.  They  were  known 
to  all  his  friends,  and  to  some  of  his  enemies. 


254  LAMB'S   DEPRESSION. 

In  Sir  Edward  Lytton's  words,  "  lie  went 
down  to  the  dust  without  having  won  the 
crown  for  wliicli  he  so  bravely  struggled.  He 
who  had  done  so  much  tor  tlie  propagation 
of  thought,  left  no  stir  upon  tlic  surface  when 
he  sank."  I  will  not  in  this  j^h'ice  attempt  to 
weave  the  moral  which  nevertheless  lies  hid 
in  his  unrequited  life.  At  that  time  the  num- 
ber of  Lamb's  old  intimates  was  gradually 
diminished.  The  eternally  recurring  madness 
of  his  sister  was  more  frequent.  The  hope- 
lessness of  it — if  liope  indectl  ever  existed  — 
was  more  paljjablc,  more  depressing.  His 
own  spring  of  miiul  was  fast  losing  its  pow- 
er of  rebound.  He  felt  the  decay  of  the  ac- 
tive principle,  and  now  confined  his  cllbrts  to 
morsels  of  criticism,  to  verses  for  albums,  and 
small  contributions  to  periodicals,  which  (ex- 
cepting only  the  "Popular  Fallacies")  it  has 
not  been  thought  important  enough  to  reprint. 
To  the  editor  of  tlie  "  Athcna'um,"  indeed,  he 
laments    sincerely    over   the    death    of   Mundeii. 


MUNDEN.  255 

This  was  in  February,  1S32,  and  was  a  mat- 
ter that  touched  his  affections.  "  He  was  not 
an  actor"  (he  writes),  "but  something  better." 
To  a  reader  of  the  present  day  —  even  to  a 
contemporary  of  Lamb  himself — there  was 
something  ahnost  amounting  to  extravagance 
in  the  terms  of  his  admiration.  Yet  Munden 
was,  in  his  way,  a  remarkable  man  ;  and  al- 
tliough  he  was  an  actor  in  farce,  he  often 
stood  aloof  and  beyond  the  farce  itself.  The 
play  was  a  thing  merely  on  which  to  hang 
his  own  conceptions.  These  did  not  arise 
from  the  drama,  but  were  elsewhere  cogi- 
tated, and  were  interleaved,  as  it  were,  with 
the  farce  or  comedy  which  served  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  their  display.  The  actor  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  szii  generis. 

To  speak  of  my  own  impressions,  Munden 
did  not  affect  me  much  in  some  of  his  earlier 
performances ;  for  then  he  depended  on  the 
play.  Afterwards,  when  he  took  the  matter 
into   his    own    hands,  and    created    personages 


256  MUNDEN. 

who  owed  little  or  nothing  to  the  playwright, 
then  he  became  an  inventor.  lie  rose  with 
the  occasion.  Sic  ivit  ad  astra.  In  the  dra- 
ma of  "  Modern  Anliqnes,"  especially,  space 
was  allowed  him  lor  his  movements.  The 
words  were  nothing.  The  prosperity  of  the 
piece  depended  exclusively  on  the  genius  of  the 
actor.  INIunden  enacted  the  part  of  an  old 
man  credulous  beyond  ordinary  credulity  ;  and 
when  he  came  upon  the  stage  there  was  in  him 
an  almost  sublime  look  of  wonder,  passing 
over  the  scene  and  j^eople  around  him, 
and  settling  apparently  somewhere  beyond  the 
moon.  What  he  believed  in,  improbable  as  it 
was  to  mere  terrestrial  visions,  you  at  once 
conceived  to  be  quite  possible,  —  to  be  true. 
The  sceptical  idiots  of  the  play  pretend  to 
give  him  a  phial  nearly  full  of  water.  He  is 
assured  that  this  contains  Cleopatra's  tear. 
AWll  ;  who  can  disprove  it?  Munden  evi- 
dently recognized  it.  "  What  a  large  tear  1  " 
he  exclaimed.     Then    tliey  place   in    his    hands 


MUNDEN.  257 

a  druidical  harp,  which  to  vulgar  eyes  might 
resemble  a  modern  gridiron.  He  touches  the 
chords  gently  ;  "  pipes  to  the  spirit  ditties  of 
no  tone ; "  and  you  imagine  y^olian  strains. 
At  last  William  Tell's  cap  is  produced.  The 
people  who  affect  to  cheat  him,  apparently  cut 
the  rim  from  a  modern  hat,  and  place  the 
skull-cap  in  his  hands ;  and  then  begins  the 
almost  finest  piece  of  acting  that  I  ever  wit- 
nessed. Munden  accepts  the  accredited  cap 
of  Tell  with  confusion  and  reverence.  He 
places  it  slowly  and  solemnly  on  his  head, 
growing  taller  in  the  act  of  crowning  him- 
self. Soon  he  swells  into  "the  heroic  size,  —  a 
great  archer,  —  and  enters  upon  his  dreadful 
task.  He  weighs  the  arrow  carefully ;  he  tries 
the  tension  of  the  bow,  the  elasticity  of  the 
string ;  and  finally,  after  a  most  deliberate 
aim,  he  permits  the  arrow  to  fly,  and  looks 
forward  at  the  same  time  with  intense  anxiety. 
You  hear  the  twang,  you  see  the  hero's 
knitted  foi-ehead,  his  eagerness ;  you  tremble : 
17 


358  MUXDEN. 

at  lust  you  mark  his  calmer  brow,  his  rchix- 
ing  smilo,  and  arc  satislicd  that  the  son  is 
saved!  It  is  chlTicult  to  paint  in  words  this 
extraonhnary  performance,  which  I  have  sev- 
eral times  seen  ;  but  you  feel  that  it  is  tran- 
scendent. You  think  of  Sa<,Mltarius,  in  the 
broad  circle  of  the  Zodiac  ;  you  recollect  that 
archery  is  as  old  as  Genesis  ;  you  are  reminded 
tliat  Ishmael,  the  son  of  Ilagar,  wandered 
about  the  Judiean  deserts,  and  ])ecame  an 
archer. 

The  old  actor  is  now  dead  ;  but  on  his  last 
l^erformance,  when  he  was  to  act  Sir  Robert 
Bramble,  on  tlie  ni<;ht  of  his  takint;  final  leave 
of  the  static.  Lamb  j^reatly  desired  to  be  pres- 
ent, lie  had  alwa\s  loved  the  actors,  espe- 
cially the  old  actors,  from  his  youth;  and  this 
was  the  last  of  the  Romans.  Accordingly 
Lamb  and  liis  sister  went  to  the  Drury  Lane; 
but  there  I)eiMg  no  room  in  tiie  ordinary  parts 
of  the  house  (boxes  or  pit),  Munden  obtained 
places    for    lii.>i     two    visitors   in    tiie    orchestra, 


MUNDEN.  259 

close  to  the  stage.  He  saw  them  carefully 
ushered  in,  and  well  posted ;  then  acted  with 
his  visual  vigor,  and  no  doubt  enjoyed  the 
plaudits  wrung  from  a  thousand  hands.  After- 
wards, in  the  interyal  between  the  comedy 
and  the  farce,  he  was  seen  to  appear  cau- 
tiously, diffidently,  at  the  low  door  of  the 
orchestra  (where  the  musicians  enter),  and 
beckon  to  his  friends,  who  then  perceived  that 
he  was  armed  with  a  mighty  pot  of  porter, 
for  their  refreshment.  Lamb,  grateful  for  the 
generous  liquid,  drank  heartily,  but  not  os- 
tentatiously, and  returned  the  pot  of  beer  to 
Munden,  who  had  waited  to  remove  it  from 
fastidious  eyes.  He  then  retreated  into  the 
farce  ;  and  then  he  retired  —  forever. 

After  Munden's  retirement  Lamb  almost 
entirely  forsook  the  theatre ;  and  his  habits 
became  more  solitary.  He  had  not  relin- 
quished society,  nor  professedly  narrowed  the 
circle  of  his  friends.  But  insensibly  his  vis- 
itors  became  fewer  in  number,  and  came   less 


26o         LAMB   BECOMES  A   BOARDEIi. 

frequently.  Some  had  died  ;  sonic  had  grown 
old ;  some  had  increased  occupation  to  care 
for.  His  old  Wednesday  evenings  had  ceased, 
and  he  had  placcil  several  miles  of  road  be- 
tween London  (tlic  residence  of  their  families) 
and  his  own  home.  The  weight  of  years,  in- 
deed, had  its  cflect  in  pressing  down  his 
strength  and  buoyancy ;  his  spirit  no  longer 
possessed  its  old  power  of  rebound.  Even 
the  care  of  housekeeping  (not  very  onerous, 
one  would  suppose)  troubled  Charles  and  his 
sister  so  much,  tiiat  they  determined  to  al)an- 
don  it.  This  occurred  in  1S29.  Then  they 
became  boarders  and  lodgers,  witli  an  old 
person  (T.  ^V.),  who  was  their  next-door 
neighbor  at  Enliekl  ;  and  of  him  Lamb  has 
given  an  elaborate  description.  T.  W.,  his 
new  landlord  or  housekeeper,  he  says,  is 
seventy  years  old  ;  ''  lie  has  something  under  a 
competence;"  he  has  one  joke,  and  forty 
])()unds  a  year,  upon  which  he  retires  in  a 
green    old    age  :     he    laughs  wlien     he    hears    a 


LETTER    TO   WORDSWORTH.  261 

joke,  and  when  (which  is  much  oftener)  he 
hears  it  not.  Having  served  the  greater  parish 
offices,  Lamb  and  his  sister  become  greater, 
being  his  lodgers,  than  they  were  when  sub- 
stantial householders.  The  children  of  the 
village  venerate  him  for  his  gentility,  but 
wonder  also  at  him  for  a  gentle  indorsation 
of  the  person,  not  amounting  to  a  hump,  or, 
if  one,  then  like  that  of  the  buffalo,  and 
coronative  of  as  mild  qualities. 

Writing  to  Wordsworth  (and  speaking  as  a 
great  landed  proprietor),  he  says,  "We  have 
ridded  ourselves  of  the  dirty  acres ;  settled 
down  into  poor  boarders  and  lodgers ;  con- 
fiding ravens."  The  distasteful  country,  how- 
ever, still  remains,  and  the  clouds  still  hang 
over  it.  "  Let  not  the  lying  poets  be  believed, 
who  entice  men  from  the  cheerful  streets," 
he  writes.  The  country,  he  thinks,  does  well 
enough  when  he  is  amongst  his  books,  by  the 
fire  and  with  candle-light ;  but  day  and  the 
green    fields     return    and     restore    his    natural 


262  MOVES    TO  EDMOXTON. 

antipathies ;  then  lie  says,  "  In  a  calenture  I 
plunge  into  vSt.  Giles's."  So  Lamb  and  his 
sister  leave  their  comfortable  little  house,  and 
subside  into  the  rooms  of  the  Humpback. 
Their  cliairs,  and  tables,  and  beds  also  retreat; 
all  except  the  ancient  bookcase,  full  of  his 
"  ragged  veterans."  This  I  saw,  years  after 
Charles  Lamb's  death,  in  the  possession  of  his 
sister,  !Mary.  "  All  our  furniture  has  faded," 
he  writes,  "  under  the  auctioneer's  hammer ; 
going  for  nothing,  like  the  tarnished  frippery 
of  the  prodigal."  Four  years  afterwards  (in 
1S33)  Lamb  moves  to  his  last  home,  in 
Cliurch  Street,  Edmonton,  where  he  is  some- 
what  nearer  to    his   London  friends. 

Very  curious  was  the  antipathy  of  Charles 
to  objects  that  are  generally  so  pleasant  to 
other  men.  It  was  not  a  passing  lumior, 
but  a  life-long  dislike.  He  admired  the  trees, 
and  the  meadows,  and  murnuuing  streams  in 
]X)etry.  I  have  heard  him  repeat  some  of 
Keats's    beautiful     lines     in     the     Ode     to     the 


METROPOLITAN  ATTACHMENT.        363 

Nightingale,  about  the  "  pastoral  eglantine," 
with  great  delight.  But  that  was  another 
thing:  that  was  an  object  in  its  proper 
place :  that  was  a  piece  of  art.  Long  ago 
he  had  admitted  that  the  mountains  of  Cum- 
berland were  grand  objects  "  to  look  at ; " 
but  (as  he  said)  "  the  houses  in  streets 
were  the  places  to  live  in."  I  imagine  that 
he  would  no  more  have  received  the  former 
as  an  equivalent  for  his  own  modest  home, 
than  he  would  have  accepted  a  portrait  as  a 
substitute  for  a  friend.  He  was,  beyond  all 
other  men  whom  I  have  met,  essentially  met- 
ropolitan. He  loved  "  the  sweet  security  of 
streets,"  as  he  says :  "  I  would  set  up  my 
tabernacle  there." 

In  the  spring  of  1S34,  Coleridge's  health 
began  to  decline.  Charles  had  written  to  him 
(in  reply)  on  the  14th  April,  at  which  time 
his  friend  had  been  evidently  unwell ;  for 
Lamb  sa3'S  that  he  is  glad  to  see  that  he 
could  write    so  long  a  letter.     He  was   indeed 


264  DEATH  OF  COLERIDGE. 

very  ill ;  and  no  fiuthcr  personal  intercourse 
(I  believe)  took  place  between  Charles  and 
his  old  schoolfellow.  Coleridge  lay  ill  for 
months ;  but  liis  faculties  seem  to  have  sur- 
vived his  bodily  decay.  lie  died  on  the  25th 
July,  1834;  yet  on  the  5th  of  that  month  he 
was  able  to  discourse  with  his  nephew  on 
Dryden  and  Barrow,  on  Lord  Brook,  and 
Fielding,  and  Richardson,  without  any  ap- 
parent diminution  of  judgment.  Even  on 
the  loth  (a  fortnight  only  before  his  death) 
there  was  no  symptom  of  speedy  dissolution : 
he  tlicn  said,  "  The  scenes  of  my  early  life 
have  stolen  into  my  mind  like  breezes  blown 
from  the  Spice  Islands."  Charles's  sorrow 
was  unceasing.  "  lie  was  iny  fifty  years'  old 
friend "  (he  says)  •■'  without  a  dissension.  I 
cannot  think  without  an  inelTectual  reference 
to  him."  Lamb's  frecjuent  exclamations, 
''  Coleridge  is  dead !  Coleridge  is  dead ! " 
have    been  already   noticed. 

And  now  the   Hgures  of  other  old  friends  of 


LAMB'S   OLD  FRLENDS.  265 

Charles  Lamb,  gradually  (one  by  one),  slip 
out  of  sight.  Still,  in  his  later  letters  are  to  be 
found  glimpses  of  Wordswortli  and  Southey, 
of  Rogers  and  Hood,  of  Cary  (with  whom 
his  intimacy  increases)  ;  especially  may  be 
noted  Miss  Isola,  whom  he  tenderly  regarded, 
and  after  whose  marriage  (then  left  more 
alone)  he  retreats  to  his  last  retreat,  in 
Church    Street,   Edmonton. 

From  details  let  us  escape  into  a  more 
general  narrative.  The  latest  facts  need  not 
be  painfully  enumerated.  Thei-e  is  little  left, 
indeed,  to  particularize.  Mary's  health  fluctu- 
ates, perhaps,  more  frequently  than  heretofore. 
At  one  time  she  is  well  and  happy ;  at 
another  her  mind  becomes  turbid,  and  she  is 
then  sheltered,  as  usual,  under  her  brother's 
care.  The  last  Essays  of  Elia  are  published ; 
—  friends  visit  him  ;  —  and  he  occasionally 
visits  them  in  London.  He  dines  with  Tal- 
fourd  and  Cary.  Thfe  sparks  which  are 
brought   out   are    as   bright   as    ever,    although 


266  LETTER   TO  ROGERS. 

the  splendor  is  not  so  frequent.  Apparently 
the  bodily  strength,  never  great,  but  sufficient 
to  move  him  pleasantly  throughout  life,  seemed 
to  flag  a  little.  Yet  he  walks  as  usual.  He 
and  his  sister  "  scramble  through  the  Inferno  :  " 
(as  he  says  to  Gary),  "  jMary's  chief  pride  in 
it  was,  that  she  should  some  day  brag  of  it 
to  you."  Then  he  and  Mary  became  very 
poorly.  lie  writes,  "We  have  had  a  sick 
child,  sleeping,  or  not  sleeping,  next  to  me, 
with  a  pasteboard  partition  between,  who 
killed  my  sleep.  My  bedfellows  are  Cough 
and  Cramp  :  we  sleep  three  in  a  bed.  Don't 
come  yet  to  this  house  of  pest  and  age." 
This  is  in  1S33.  At  the  end  of  that  year  (in 
December)  he  writes  (once  more  humorously) 
to  Rogers,  expressing,  amongst  other  things, 
ills  love  for  that  line  artist,  Stothard  :  "  I 
met  the  dear  old  man,  and  it  was  sublime 
to  see  him  sit,  deaf,  and  eiij<n'  all  that  was 
going  on  mirthful  with  the  comjiany.  He 
reposec^    upon    tlie     many     graceful     and    many 


LAMB'S  FALL.  267 

fantastic  images  he  had  created."  His  last 
letter,  written  to  Mrs,  Dyer  on  the  day  after 
his  fall,  was  an  eflbrt  to  recover  a  book  of 
Mr.  Gary,  which  had  been  mislaid  or  lost, 
so  anxious  was  he  always  that  every  man 
should    have  his  own. 

In  December,  1S34,  the  history  of  Charles 
Lamb  comes  suddenly  to  a  close.  He  had  all 
along  had  a  troubled  day :  now  came  the 
night.  His  spirits  had  joreviously  been  toler- 
ably cheerful ;  reading  and  conversing,  as 
heretofore,  with  his  friends,  on  subjects  that 
■were  familiar  to  him.  There  was  little  mani- 
fest alteration  or  foiling  off  in  his  condition 
of  mind  or  body.  He  took  his  morning 
walks  as  usual.  One  day  he  stumbled  against 
a  stone,  and  fell.  His  face  was  slightly 
"wounded ;  but  no  fatal  (or  even  alarming) 
consequence  was  foreboded.  Erysipelas,  how- 
ever, followed  the  wound,  and  his  strength 
(never  robust)  was  not  sufficient  to  enable 
him   to    combat  successfully  that   inflammatory 


26S  UIS   DEATH. 

and  exhausting  disease.  lie  sullcred  no  pain 
(I  believe)  ;  and  when  tlie  presence  of  a 
clergyman  was  suggested  to  him,  he  made  no 
remark,  but  understood  that  his  life  was  in 
danger ;  lie  was  cpiite  cahn  and  collected, 
quite  resigned.  At  last  his  voice  began  to 
fail,  his  perceptions  became  confused,  and  he 
sank  gradually,  very  gradually,  until  the  27th 
of  December,  1S34;  ai\(l  tliL-n  —  he  dieil  !  It 
was  the  fading  away  or  disappearance  of  life, 
rather  than  a  violent  transit  into  another 
world. 

lie  died  at  Edmonton  ;  not,  as  has  been  sup- 
posed, at  Enfield,  t(j  wliich  place  he  never  re- 
turned as  to  a  place  of  resilience,  after  he  had 
once  (juitted   it. 

It  is  not  true  that  he  was  ever  deranged,  or 
subjected  to  any  restraint,  shortly  before  his 
death.  There  ne\  er  was  the  least  symptom 
of  mental  (listurl)ance  in  him  after  the  time 
(1795-6)  when  he  was  placed  for  a  few  weeks 
in    Iloxfon    Asylum,    to    allay    a    little    nervous 


LAMB'S  AGE.  269 

imtation.  If  it  were  necessary  to  confirm  this 
assertion,  which  is  known  to  me  from  personal 
observation  and  other  incontrovertible  evidence, 
I  would  adduce  ten  of  his  published  letters  (in 
1833)  and  several  in  1834;  one  of  them  bear- 
ing date  only  four  days  before  his  death.  All 
these  documents  afford  ample  testimony  of  his 
clear  good  sense  and  kind  heart,  some  of  them, 
indeed,  being  tinged  with  his  usual  humor. 

Charles  Lamb  was  fifty-nine  years  old  at  his 
death ;  of  the  same  age  as  Cromwell,  between 
whom  and  himself  there  was  of  course  no  other 
similitude.  A  few  years  before,  when  he  was 
about  to  be  released  from  his  wearisome  toil 
at  the  India  House,  he  said  exultingly,  that  he 
was  passing  out  of  Time  into  Eternity.  But 
now  came  the  true  Eternity ;  the  old  Eternity, 
—  without  change  or  limit;  in  which  all  men 
surrender  their  leisure,  as  well  as  their  labor; 
when  their  sensations  and  infirmities  (some- 
times harassing  enough)  cease  and  are  at  rest. 
No  more  anxiety  for  the  debtor;   no  more  toil 

M 


270  LAMB'S  ECONOMY. 

for  the  worker.  The  rich  man's  ambition,  tlie 
poor  man's  pains,  at  last  arc  over.  Jlic  jacet. 
That  "forlorn"  inscrijition  is  the  universal 
epitaph.  What  a  world  of  moral,  what  spec- 
ulations, what  pathetic  wishes,  and  what  ter- 
rible dreams,  lie  enshrouded  in  that  one  final 
issue,  which  we  call  —  Death. 

To  him  who  never  gave  pain  to  a  human 
being,  whose  genius  yielded  nothing  but  in- 
struction and  delight,  was  awarded  a  calm  and 
easy  death,  ^s()  man,  it  is  my  belief,  was  ever 
loved  or  lamented  more  sincerely  than  Charles 
Lamb.  His  sister  (his  elder  by  a  decade)  sur- 
vived him  for  tlie  space  of  thirteen  years. 

By  strict  economy,  without  meanness ;  with 
much  unpretending  hospitality ;  with  frequent 
gifts  and  lendings,  and  without  any  borrowing, 
—  he  accumulated,  during  his  thirty-three  years 
of  constant  la1)or,  the  nifxlerate  sum  of  two 
thousand  pounds.  No  more.  That  was  the 
sum,  1  believe,  which  was  eventually  shared 
amongst   his    legatees.     His    other    riches  were 


LAMB'S   WILL.  271 

gathered  together  and  deposited  elsewhere  ;  in 
tlie  memory  of  those  who  loved  him,  —  and 
there  were  many  of  them,  —  or  amongst  others 
of  our  Anglo-Saxon  race,  whose  minds  he  has 
helped  to  enrich  and  soften. 

The  property  of  Charles  Lamb,  or  so  much 
as  might  be  wanted  for  the  purpose,  was  by  his 
will  directed  to  be  applied  towards  the  main- 
tenance and  comfort  of  his  sister ;  and,  subject 
to  this  primary  object,  it  was  vested  in  trustees 
for  the  benefit  of  Miss  Isola  —  Mrs.  Moxon. 

Mary  Lamb's  comforts  were  supplied,  with 
anxiety  and  tenderness,  throughout  the  thirteen 
years  during  which  she  survived  her  brother. 
I  went  to  see  her,  after  her  brother's  death ; 
but  her  frequent  illnesses  did  not  render  visits 
at  all  times  welcome  or  feasible.  She  then  re- 
sided in  Alpha  Road,  Saint  John's  Wood,  under 
the  care  of  an  experienced  nurse.  There  was 
a  twilight  of  consciousness  in  her, — scarcely 
more,  —  at  times  ;  so  that  perhaps  the  mercy 
of  God  saved   her  from  full  knowledge  of  her 


273  DEATH   OF  MARY  LAMB. 

great  loss.  Charles,  who  had  given  up  all 
his  days  for  her  protection  and  benefit, — who 
had  fought  the  great  battle  of  life  so  nobly, — 
left  her  "  for  that  unknown  and  silent  shore," 
Avherc,  it  is  hoped,  the  brother  and  sister  will 
renew  the  love  which  once  united  them  on 
earth,  and  made  their  lives  holy.  Mary  Lamb 
died  on  the  20th  May,  1S47;  and  the  brother 
and  sister  now  lie  near  each  other  (in  the  same 
grave)  in  the  churchyard  of  Edmonton,  in  Mid- 
dlesex. 


(  273  ) 


POSTSCRIPT. 


I  HAVE  thus  told,  as  far  as  my  ability  per- 
mits, the  story  of  the  life  of  Charles  Lamb. 

I  have  not  ventured  to  deduce  any  formidable 
moral  from  it.  Like  Lamb  himself,  I  have  great 
dislike  to  ostentatious  precepts  and  impertinent 
lessons.  Facts  themselves  should  disclose  their 
own  virtues.  A  man  who  is  able  to  benefit  by 
a  lesson  will,  no  doubt,  discover  it,  under  any 
husk  or  disguise,  before  it  is  stripped  and  laid 
bare  —  to  the  kernel. 

Besides,  too  much  teaching  may  disagree 
with  the  reader.  It  is  apt  to  harden  the  heart, 
wearying  the  attention,  and  mortifying  the 
self-love.  Such  disturbances  of  the  system  in- 
terfere with  the  digestion  of  a  truth. 

Even  Gulliver  is  sometimes  too  manifestly 
i8 


374  POSTSCRIPT. 

didactic.  His  adventures,  simply  told,  would 
have  emitted  spontaneously  a  luminous  atmos- 
phere, and  need  not  have  been  distilled  into 
brilliant  or  pungent  drops. 

No  history  is  barren  of  good.  Even  from 
the  foregoing  narrative  some  benefit  may  be 
gleaned,  some  sympathy  may  be  excited,  which 
naturally  forms  itself  into  a  lesson. 

Let  us  look  at  it  cursorily. 

Charles  Lamb  was  born  almost  in  penury, 
and  he  was  taught  by  charity.  Even  when  a 
boy  he  was  forced  to  labor  for  his  bread.  In 
the  first  opening  of  manhood  a  terrible  calamity 
fell  upon  him,  in  magnitude  fit  to  form  the 
mystery  or  centre  of  an  anticjue  drama.  He 
had  to  dwell,  all  his  days,  with  a  person  in- 
curably mad.  From  poverty  he  passed  at  once 
to  unpleasant  toil  and  perpetual  fear.  These 
were  the  sole  changes  in  his  fortune.  Yet 
he  gained  friends,  respect,  a  position,  and 
great  sympathy  from  all  ;  sliowing  what  one 
poor  man  of  genius,  under  grievous  misfortune, 


POSTSCRIPT.  ^  275 

may  do,  if  he  be  courageous  and  faithful  to 
the   end. 

Charles  Lamb  never  preached  nor  prescribed, 
but  let  his  own  actions  tell  their  tale  and  pro- 
duce their  natural  effects  ;  neither  did  he  deal 
out  little  apothegms  or  scraps  of  wisdom, 
derived  from  other  minds.  But  he  succeeded  ; 
and  in  every  success  there  must  be  a  mainstay 
of  right  or  truth  to  support  it ;  otherwise  it  will 
eventually  fail. 

It  is  true  that  in  his  essays  and  numerous 
letters  many  of  his  sincere  thoughts  and 
opinions  are  written  down.  These,  however, 
are  written  down  simply,  and  just  as  they 
occur,  without  any  special  design.  Some  per- 
sons exhibit  only  their  ingenuity,  or  learning. 
It  is  not  every  one  who  is  able,  like  the  licen- 
tiate Pedro  Garcias,  to  deposit  his  wealth  of 
soul  by  the  road-side. 

Like  all  persons  of  great  intellectual  sensi- 
bility. Lamb  responded  to  all  impressions.  To 
sympathize    with    Tragedy    or    Comedy    only, 


276  POSTSCRIPT. 

argues  a  limited  capacity.  The  mind  thus 
constructed  is  partially  lame  or  torpid.  One 
hemisphere  has  never  been  reached. 

It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  Lamb  pos- 
sessed  one  great  advantage.  lie  lived  and  died 
amongst  ///s  equals.  This  was  what  enabled 
him  to  exercise  his  natural  strength,  as  neither 
a  parasite  nor  a  patron  can.  It  is  marvellous 
how  freedom  of  thought  operates  ;  what  strength 
it  gives  to  the  system  ;  with  what  lightness  and 
freshness  it  endues  the  spirit.  Then,  he  was 
made  stronger  by  tr()ul)le  ;   made  wiser  by  grief. 

I  have  not  attempted  to  lix  the  precise  spot 
in  which  Charles  Lamb  is  to  shine  hereafter  in 
the  firmament  of  letters.  I  am  not  of  sullicicnt 
magnitude  to  determine  his  astral  elevation  — 
where  he  is  to  dwell  —  between  the  sun  Shake- 
speare and  the  twinkling  Zoilus.  That  must 
be  left  to  time.  Even  the  fixed  stars  at  first 
waver  and  coruscate,  and  recjuire  long  seasons 
f<jr  their  consunnuation   and   final  settlement. 

Whenever  he  (Htlcrs  with    us   in  opinicMi   (as 


POSTSCRIPT.  277 

he  does  occasionally),  let  us  not  hastily  pi-o- 
nounce  him  to  be  wrong.  It  is  wise,  as  well 
as  modest,  not  to  show  too  much  eagerness  to 
adjust  the ,  ideas  of  all  other  thinkers  to  the 
(sometimes  low)  level  of  our  own. 


(  279  ) 


APPENDIX. 


IN  the  following  pages  will  be  found  the 
opinions  of  several  distinguished  authors 
on  the  subject  of  Charles  Lamb's  genius  and 
character,  and  also  a  contribution  (by  himself) 
to  the  AtheitcEum^  made  in  January,  1835.  All 
the  writers  were  contemporary  with  Lamb,  and 
were  personally  intimate  with  him.  The  ex- 
tracts may  be  accepted  as  corroborative,  in  some 
degree,  of  the  opinions  set  forth  in  the  forego- 
ing Memoir. 

HAZLITT. 
\^Fro7n  Hazlitfs  ''Spirit  of  the  Ager     Title, 

«  Eliar^^ 

Mr.  Lamb  has  the  very  soul  of  an  antiquarian, 
as  this  implies  a  reflecting  humanity.  The  film 
of  the  past  hovers  forever  before  him.  He  is 
shy,  sensitive,  the  reverse  of  everything  coarse, 


28o  APPENDIX. 

vulgar,  obtrusive,  and  commonplace.  His  spirit 
clothes  itself  in  the  garb  of  elder  time  ;  homelier, 
but  more  durable.  He  is  borne  along  with  no 
pompous  paradoxes,  shines  in  no  glittering  tinsel 
of  a  fashionable  phraseology,  is  neither  fop  nor 
sophist.  lie  has  none  of  the  turbulence  or  froth 
of  new-fangled  opinions.  His  style  runs  pure 
and  clear,  though  it  may  often  take  an  under- 
ground course,  or  be  conveyed  through  old- 
fashioned  conduits.  .  .  .  There  is  a  fine  tone  of 
chiaro-scuro,  a  moral  perspective  in  his  writings. 
He  delights  to  dwell  on  that  which  is  fresh  to  the 
eye  of  memory  ;  he  yearns  after  and  covets  what 
soothes  the  frailty  of  human  nature.  That  touches 
him  most  nearly  which  is  withdrawn  to  a  certain 
distance,  w  Inch  verges  on  the  borders  of  oblivion  ; 
that  picjues  and  provokes  his  fancy  most  which 
is  hid  from  a  superficial  glance.  That  which, 
though  gone  by,  is  still  remembered,  is  in  his 
view  more  genuine,  and  has  given  more  signs 
that  it  will  live,  than  a  thing  of  yesterday,  which 
may  be  forgotten  to-morrow.  Death  has  in  this 
sense  the  spirit  of  life  in  it ;  and  the  shadowy  has 
to  our  author  something  substantial. 

Mr.  Lamb  has  a  distaste  to  new  faces,  to  new 
books,  to  new  buildings,  to  new  customs.  He  is 
shy  of  all  imposing  appearances,  of  all  assump- 
tidus  of  self-importance,  of  all  adventitious  orna- 
ments, of  all   mechanical   advantages,  even  to  a 


APPENDIX.  281 

nervous  excess.  It  is  not  merely  that  he  does  not 
rely  upon,  or  ordinarily  avail  himself  of  them  ; 
he  holds  them  in  abhorrence  :  he  utterly  abjures 
and  discards  them.  He  disdains  all  the  vulgar 
artifices  of  authorship,  all  the  cant  of  criticism 
and  helps  of  notoriety. 

His  affections  revert  to  and  settle  on  the  past ; 
but  then  even  this  must  have  something  per- 
sonal and  local  in  it  to  interest  him  deeply  and 
thoroughly.  He  pitches  his  tent  in  the  suburbs 
of  existing  manners,  and  brings  down  his  ac- 
count of  character  to  the  few^  straggling  remains 
of  the  last  generation.  No  one  makes  the  tour 
of  our  southei'n  metropolis,  or  describes  the  man- 
ners of  the  last  age,  so  well  as  Mr.  Lamb,  —  with 
so  fine,  and  yet  so  formal  an  air.  How  ad- 
mirably he  has  sketched  the  former  inmates  of 
the  South  Sea  House ;  what  "  fine  fretwork  he 
makes  of  their  double  and  single  entries  !  " 

With  what  a  firm  yet  subtle  pencil  he  lias  em- 
bodied Mrs.  Battle's  opinions  on  Whist !  With 
what  well-disguised  humor  he  introduces  us  to 
his  relations,  and  how  freely  he  serves  up  his 
friends ! 

The  streets  of  London  are  his  fairy-land,  teem- 
ing with  wonder,  with  life  and  interest  to  his 
retrospective  glance,  as  it  did  to  the  eager  eye  of 
childhood :  he  has  contrived  to  weave  its  tritest 
traditions  into  a  bright  and  endless  romance. 


2S2  AFPENDIX. 

IFrorn  HazUtfs  ''Tabic  Tall'T  Vol.  TL] 

Mr,  Lamb  is  the  only  imitator  of  old  English 
style  I  can  read  with  pleasure ;  and  he  is  so 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  his  authors, 
that  the  idea  of  imitation  is  almost  done  away. 
There  is  an  inward  miction,  a  marrowy  vein  both 
in  the  thought  and  feeling,  an  intuition,  deep  and 
lively,  of  his  subject,  that  carries  olV  any  quaint- 
ness  or  awkwardness  arising  from  an  anticjuated 
style  and  dress.  The  matter  is  completely  his 
own,  though  the  manner  is  assumed.  Perhaps 
his  ideas  arc  altogether  so  marked  and  individual, 
as  to  refiuire  their  point  and  pungency  to  be  neu- 
tralized by  the  ailectation  of  a  singular  but  tradi- 
tional form  of  conveyance.  Tricked  out  in  the 
prevailing  costume,  they  would  probably  seem 
more  startling  and  out  of  the  way.  The  old 
English  authors,  Uurtoii,  Fuller,  Coryate,  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  are  a  kind  of  mediators  between 
us  and  the  more  eccentric  and  whimsical  modern, 
reconciling  us  to  his  peculiarities.  1  must  con- 
fess that  what  I  like  best  of  his  papers  under  tlic 
signature  of  Elia  (still  I  do  not  presume,  amidst 
such  excellence,  to  decide  what  is  most  excel- 
lent) is  the  account  of  Mrs.  Battle's  "  Opinions 
on  Whist,"  which  is  also  the  most  free  from  ob- 
solete allusions  and  turns  of  expression, — 
•'  A  well  of  native  English  uudclilcd."   • 


APPENDIX.  2S3 

To  those  a'cquainted  with  his  admired  proto- 
types, these  Essays  of  the  ingenious  and  highly 
gifted  author  have  the  same  sort  of  charm  and 
rehsh  that  Erasmus's  "  Colloquies,"  or  a  fine 
piece  of  modern  Latin,  have  to  the  classical 
scholar.  —  '•'■On  Familiar  Styled 

\_Hazlitfs  '-'•  Plain  Speaker^'  Vol.  I.  p.  62.] 

At  Lamb's  we  used  to  have  lively  skirmishes 
at  their  Thursday  evening  parties.  I  doubt 
whether  the  Small  Coal-man's  musical  parties 
could  exceed  them.  O  for  the  pen  of  John 
Buncle  to  consecrate  a  fetit  souvenir  to  their 
memory  !  There  was  Lamb  himself,  the  most 
delightful,  the  most  provoking,  the  most  witty 
and  sensible  of  men.  He  always  made  the  best 
pun  and  the  best  remark  in  the  course  of  the 
evening.  His  serious  conversation,  like  his  seri- 
ous writing,  is  his  best.  No  one  ever  stammered 
out  such  fine,  piquant,  deep,  eloquent  things,  in 
half  a  dozen  sentences,  as  he  does.  His  jests 
scald  like  tears,  and  he  probes  a  question  with  a 
play  upon  words.  What  a  keen,  laughing,  hair- 
brained  vein  of  homefelt  truth  !  What  choice 
venom  !  How  often  did  we  cut  into  the  haunch 
of  letters  !  How  we  skimmed  the  cream  of  crit- 
icism !  How  we  picked  out  the  marrow  of  au- 
thors !     Need  I  go  over  the  names?     They  were 


2S4  APPENDIX. 

but  the  old,  everlasting  set  —  Milton  and  Shakes- 
peare, Pope  and  Dryden,  Steele  and  Addison, 
Swift  and  Gay,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Sterne,  Rich- 
ardson, Hogarth's  prints,  Claude's  landscapes, 
the  Cartoons  at  Hamioton  Court,  and  all  those 
things  that,  having  once  been,  must  ever  be. 
The  Scotch  Novels  had  not  then  been  heard  of: 
so  we  said  nothing  about  them.  In  general  we 
were*hard  upon  the  moderns.  The  author  of  the 
"  Rambler  "  was  only  tolerated  in  Boswell's  Life 
of  him  ;  and  it  was  as  much  as  any  one  could  do 
to  edge  in  a  word  for  Junius.  Lamb  could  not 
bear  Gil  Ulas:  this  was  a  fault.  I  remember 
the  greatest  triumph  I  ever  had  was  in  persuad- 
ing him,  after  some  years'  dilhculty,  that  Fielding 
was  better  than  Smollett.  On  one  occasioji  he  was 
for  making  out  a  list  of  persons  famous  in  history^ 
that  one  would  wish  to  see  again,  at  the  head  of 
whom  were  Pontius  Pilate,  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
and  Dr.  Faustus  ;  l)ut  we  black-balled  most  of  his 
list!  But  with  what  a  gusto  would  he  describe 
his  favorite  authors,  Donne  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney, 
and  call  their  most  crabbed  passages  delicious! 
lie  tried  them  on  his  palate,  as  epicures  taste 
olives,  and  his  obser\-ations  had  a  smack  in  them, 
like  a  roughness  on  the  tongue.  With  what  dis- 
crimination he  hinted  a  defect  in  what  he  admired 
most,  —  as  in  saying  the  display  (jf  the  sumptuous 
banquet,  in  "  Paradise  Regained,"  was  not  in  true 


APPENDIX.  285 

keeping,  as  the  simplest  fare  was  all  that  was 
necessary  to  tempt  the  extremity  of  hunger ;  and 
stating  that  Adam  and  Eve  in  "  Paradise  Lost" 
were  too  much  like  married  people.  He  has 
furnished  many  a  text  for  Coleridge  to  preach 
upon.  There  was  no  fuss  or  cant  about  him  ; 
nor  were  his  sweets  or  sours  ever  diluted  with  one 
paiticle  of  affectation. —  '■'■On  the  Conversation 
of  AittJiors." 

\_F)'om  '•'•  AutobiograpJiy  of  Leigh   Hunt"  pp. 

250-353.] 

Let  me  take  this  opportunity  of  recording  my 
recollections  in  general  of  my  friend  Lamb  ;  of 
all  the  world's  friend,  particularly  of  his  oldest 
friends,  Coleridge  and  Southey ;  for  I  think  he 
never  modified  or  withheld  any  opinion  (in  pri- 
vate or  bookwards)  except  in  consideration  of 
what  he  thought  they  might  not  like. 

Charles  Lamb  had  a  head  worthy  of  Aristotle, 
with  as  fine  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  human  bosom, 
and  limbs  very  fragile  to  sustain  it.  There  was 
a  caricature  of  him  sold  in  the  shops,  which 
pretended  to  be  a  likeness.  Procter  went  into 
the  shop  in  a  passion,  and  asked  the  man  what 
he  meant  by  putting  forth  such  a  libel.  The  man 
apologized,  and  said  that  the  artist  meant  no 
offence.     There    never   was    a    true    portrait  of 


2S6  APPENDIX. 

Lamb.  His  features  were  stronj^ly  yet  delicately 
cut ;  he  had  a  iine  eye  as  well  as  forehead  ;  and 
no  face  carried  in  it  j^reater  marks  of  thought 
and  feeling.  It  resembled  that  of  Bacon,  with 
less  worldly  vigor  and  more  sensibility. 

As  his  frame,  so  was  his  genius.  It  was  as  fit 
for  thought  as  could  be,  and  equally  as  unfit  for 
action  ;  and  this  rendered  him  melancholy,  ap- 
prehensive, humorous,  and  willing  to  make  the 
best  of  everything  as  it  was,  both  from  tenderness 
of  heart  and  abhorrence  of  alteration.  His  un- 
derstanding was  too  great  to  admit  an  absurdity  ; 
his  frame  was  not  strong  enough  to  deliver  it 
from  a  fear.  His  sensibility  to  strong  contrasts 
was  the  foundation  of  his  humor,  which  was  that 
of  a  wit  at  once  melancholy  and  willing  to  be 
pleased.  .  .  .  His  puns  were  admirable,  and 
often  contained  as  deep  things  as  the  wisdom  of 
some  who  have  greater  names ;  such  a  man,  for 
instance,  as  Nicole,  the  Frenchman,  who  was  a 
baby  to  him.  Lamb  would  have  cracked  a  score 
of  jokes  at  Nicole,  worth  his  whole  book  of 
sentences ;  pelted  his  head  with  pearls.  Nicole 
would  not  have  understood  him,  but  Rochefou- 
cault  would,  and  Pascal  too  ;  and  some  of  our 
old  Lnglishmen  would  have  understood  him  still 
better.  He  would  have  been  worthy  of  hearing 
Shakespeare  read  one  of  his  scenes  to  him,  hot 
from   the  brain.     Ci»mnionplace    found    a    great 


APPENDIX.  287 

comforter  in  him,  as  long  as  it  was  good-natured  ; 
it  was  to  the  ill-natured  or  the  dictatorial  only 
that  he  was  startling.  Willing  to  see  society  go 
on  as  it  did,  because  he  despaired  of  seeing  it 
otherwise,  but  not  at  all  agreeing  in  his  interior 
with  the  common  notions  of  crime  and  punish- 
ment, he  '•'•  dumfounded"  a  long  tirade  against 
vice  one  evening,  by  taking  the  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth,  and  asking  the  speaker,  "Whether  he 
meant  to  say  that  a  thief  was  not  a  good  man  ?  " 
To  a  person  abusing  Voltaire,  and  indiscreetly 
opposing  his  character  to  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  he 
said  admirably  well  (though  he  by  no  means  over- 
rated Voltaire,  nor  wanted  reverence  in  the  other 
quarter),  that  "Voltaire  was  a  very  good  Jesus 
Christ  y^r  the  Prench."  He  liked  to  see  the 
church-goers  continue  to  go  to  church,  and  wrote 
a  tale  in  his  sister's  admirable  little  book  (^Mrs. 
Leicester's  School)  to  encourage  the  rising  gen- 
eration to  do  so  ;  but  to  a  conscientious  deist  he 
had  nothing  to  object ;  and  if  an  atheist  had 
found  every  other  door  shut  against  him,  he 
would  assuredly  not  have  found  his.  I  believe 
he  would  have  had  the  world  remain  pi'ecisely  as 
it  was,  provided  it  innovated  no  further ;  but  this 
spirit  in  him  was  anything  but  a  worldly  one,  or 
for  his  own  interest.  He  hardly  contemplated 
with  patience  the  new  buildings  in  the  Regent's 
Park  ;  and,  privately  speaking,  he  had  a  grudge 


288  APPENDIX. 

against  official  licuvcn-cxpounclcrs,  or  clergymen. 
lie  would  rather,  however,  have  been  with  a 
crowd  that  he  disliked,  than  felt  himself  alone. 
He  said  to  me  one  day,  with  a  face  of  great 
solemnity,  "  Wliat  must  have  been  that  man's 
feelings,  who  thought  h'lm^cM  t/ic  Jirst  deist?" 
...  lie  knew  how  many  false  conclusions  and 
pretensions  arc  made  by  men  who  profess  to  be 
guided  by  facts  only,  as  if  facts  could  not  be 
misconceived,  or  ligmeiits  taken  for  them  ;  and 
therefore,  one  day,  when  somebody  was  speak- 
ing of  a  person  who  valued  himself  on  being  a 
matter-of-fact  man,  '^  Now,"  said  he,  "  I  value 
myself  on  being  a  matter-of-lie  man."  This  did 
not  hinder  his  being  a  man  of  the  greatest  ve- 
racity, in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  ;  but 
"  truth,"  he  said,  "  was  precious,  and  not  to  be 
wasted  on  everybody."  Those  who  wish  to  have 
a  genuine  taste  of  him,  and  an  insight  into  his 
modes  of  life,  should  read  his  essays  on  Hogarth 
and  King  Lear,  his  Letters,  his  article  on  the 
London  Streets,  on  W/iist-Playittg,  which  he 
loves,  and  on  Saying  Grace  before  Meat,  which 
he  thinks  a  strange  moment  to  select  for  being 
grateful.  1  le  said  once  to  a  brother  whist-player, 
whose  hand  was  more  clever  than  clean,  and 
wlio  iiad  enough  in  him  to  allbrd  the  joke,  "  M., 
if  dirt  were  trumps,  what  hands  you  would 
hold!  " 


APPENDIX.  2S9 


FORSTER. 

[^J^rom  Mr.  JoJui  JFoj-sters  Contribution  to 
the  New  Monthly  Magazine^  1S35.  Title ^ 
"  Charles  Lamb."~\ 

Charles  Lamb's  first  appearance  in  literature 
was  by  the  side  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 
He  came  into  his  first  battle,  as  he  tells  us  (litera- 
ture is  a  sort  of  warfare),  under  cover  of  that 
greater  Ajax. 

We  should  like  to  see  this  remarkable  friend- 
ship (remarkable  in  all  respects  and  in  all  its 
circumstances)  between  two  of  the  most  original 
geniuses  in  an  age  of  no  common  genius,  worthily 
recorded.  It  would  outvalue,  in  the  view  of  pos- 
terity, many  centuries  of  literary  quarrels. 

Lamb  never  fairly  recovered  the  death  of  Cole- 
ridge. He  thought  of  little  else  (his  sister  was 
but  another  portion  of  himself)  until  his  own 
great  spirit  joined  his  friend's.  He  had  a  habit 
of  venting  his  melancholy  in  a  sort  of  mirth.  He 
would,  with  nothing  graver  than  a  pun,  "  cleanse 
his  bosom  of  the  perilous  stuff'  that  weighed  " 
upon  it.  In  a  jest,  or  a  few  light  phrases,  he 
would  lay  open  the  recesses  of  his  heart.  So  in 
respect  of  the  death  of  Coleridge.  Some  old 
friends  of  his  saw  him  two  or  three  weeks  ago, 

19 


290  APPENDIX. 

and  remarked  the  constant  turning  and  reference 
of  his  mind.  He  interrupted  himself  and  them 
almost  every  instant  with  some  play  of  aflectcd 
wonder  or  humorous  melancholy  on  tiie  words 
''''Coleridge  is  dead."  Nothing  could  divert  him 
from  that,  for  the  thought  of  it  never  left  him. 
About  tlie  same  time,  we  had  written  to  him  to 
request  a  few  lines  for  the  literary  album  of  a 
gentleman  who  entertained  a  fitting  admiration 
pf  his  genius.  It  was  the  last  request  we  were  to 
make,  and  the  last  kindness  wc  were  to  receive. 

He  wrote   in  Mr.  's  volume,  and  wrote  of 

Coleridge.  This,  we  believe,  was  the  last  pro- 
duction of  his  pen.  A  strange  and  not  un- 
enviable chance,  which  saw  him  at  the  end  of  his 
literary  pilgrimage,  as  he  had  been  at  the  be- 
ginning, —  in  that  immortal  company.  We  are 
indebted,  witli  the  reader,  to  tlie  kindness  of  our 
friend  for  permission  to  print  the  whole  of  what 
was  written.  It  would  be  impertinence  to  oiler 
a  remark  on  it.  Once  read,  its  noble  and  allec- 
tionate  tenderness  will  l)e  remembered  forever. 

"  When  I  heard  of  the  death  of  Coleridge,  it 
was  without  grief.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  long 
had  been  on  tiie  confmes  of  the  next  world,  — 
that  he  had  a  hunger  for  eternity.  I  grieved  then 
that  I  could  not  grieve.  But  since,  I  feel  how 
great  a  part  he  was  of  me.  His  great  and  ilear 
s;;irit  hauiits  me.     I   cannot   t,b:.iK  a   thought,  I 


APPENDIX.  291 

cannot  make  a  ci'iticism  on  men  or  books,  with- 
out an  ineffectual  turning  and  reference  to  him. 
He  was  the  j^roof  and  touchstone  of  all  my  cogi- 
tations. He  was  a  Grecian  (or  in  the  first  form) 
at  Christ's  Hospital,  where  I  was  deputy  Grecian  ; 
and  the  same  subordination  and  deference  to  him 
I  have  preserved  through  a  life-long  acquaint- 
ance. Great  in  his  writings,  he  was  greatest  in 
his  conversation.  In  him  was  disproved  that  old 
maxim,  that  we  should  allow  every  one  his  share 
of  talk.  He  would  talk  from  morn  to  dewy  eve, 
nor  cease  till  far  midnight ;  yet  who  ever  would 
interrupt  him, — who  would  obstruct  that  con- 
tinuous flow  of  converse,  fetched  from  Helicon  or 
Zion?  He  had  the  tact  of  making  the  unintel- 
ligible seem  plain.  Many  who  read  the  abstruser 
parts  of  his  "Friend"  would  complain  that  his 
works  did  not  answer  to  his  spoken  wisdom. 
They  were  identical.  But  he  had  a  tone  in  oral 
delivery,  which  seemed  to  convey  sense  to  those 
who  were  otherwise  imperfect  recipients.  He 
was  my  fifty  years  old  friend  without  a  dissension. 
Never  saw  I  his  likeness,  nor  probably  the  world 
can  see  again.  I  seem  to  love  the  house  he  died 
at  more  passionately  than  when  he  lived.  I  love 
the  faithful  Gilmans  more  than  while  they  exer- 
cised their  virtues  towards  him  living.  What  was 
his  mansion  is  consecrated  to  me  a  chapel. 

"  Chas.  Lamb. 
"Edmonton,  November  21,   1834." 


292  APPENDIX. 

Within  five  weeks  of  this  date  Charles  Lamb 
died.  A  shpjht  aceidcnt  brought  on  an  attacic  of 
erysipelas,  which  proved  fatal ;  his  system  was 
not  strong  enough  for  resistance.  It  is  sonic  con- 
solation to  add,  that,  during  his  illness,  which 
lasted  four  days,  he  sulTered  no  pain,  and  that  his 
faculties  remained  with  him  to  the  last.  A  few 
words  spoken  by  him  the  day  before  he  died 
showed  with  what  quiet  collectcdness  he  was 
prepared  to  meet  death. 

As  an  Essayist,  Charles  Lamb  will  be  re- 
membered, in  years  to  come,  with  Ral)elais  and 
Montaigne,  with  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  with 
Steele,  and  with  Addison.  He  imites  many  of 
the  finest  characteristics  of  these  several  writers, 
lie  has  wisdt)m  and  wit  of  the  highest  order, 
exquisite  humor,  a  genuine  and  cordial  vein  of 
pleasantry,  and  the  most  heart-touching  pathos. 
In  the  largest  acceptation  of  llic  word  he  is  a 
humanist.  No  one  of  the  great  family  of  authors 
past  or  present  has  shown  in  matters  the  most 
important  or  the  most  trivial  so  delicate  and 
extreme  a  sense  of  all  that  is  human.  It  is  tJie 
prevalence  of  this  characteristic  in  his  writings 
whicli  has  subjected  him  to  occasit)nal  charges 
of  want  of  imagination.  This,  hcnvever,  is  but 
half-criticism  ;  for  the  matter  of  reproach  may  in 
fict  be  said  to  l)e  his  triumph.  It  was  with  a 
tlecp  relish  of  Mr.  Lamb's   faculty  that  a  friend 


APPENDIX. 


293 


of  his  once  said,  "  He  makes  the  majesties  of 
imagination  seem  familiar."  It  is  precisely  thus 
with  his  own  imagination.  It  eludes  the  obsei-va- 
tion  of  the  ordinary  reader  in  the  modesty  of  its 
truth,  in  its  social  and  familiar  air.  His  fancy  as 
an  Essayist  is  distinguished  by  singular  delicacy 
and  tenderness ;  and  even  his  conceits  will 
generally  be  found  to  be,  as  those  of  his  favorite 
Fuller  often  are,  steeped  in  human  feeling  and 
passion.  The  fondness  he  entertained  for  Fuller, 
for  the  author  of  the  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy," 
and  for  other  writers  of  that  class,  was  a  pure 
matter  of  temperament.  His  thoughts  were  al- 
ways his  own.  Even  when  his  words  seem  cast 
in  the  very  mould  of  others,  the  perfect  origi- 
nality of  his  thinking  is  felt  and  acknowledged ; 
we  may  add,  in  its  superior  wisdom,  manliness, 
and  unaffected  sweetness.  Every  sentence  in 
those  Essays  may  be  proved  to  be  crammed  full 
of  thinking.  The  two  volumes  will  be  multiplied, 
we  have  no  doubt,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years, 
into  as  many  hundreds  ;  for  they  contain  a  stock 
of  matter  which  must  be  ever  suggestive  to  more 
active  minds,  and  will  surely  revisit  the  world  in 
new  shapes  —  an  everlasting  succession  and  va- 
riety of  ideas.  The  past  to  him  was  not  mere 
dry  antiquity ;  it  involved  a  most  extensive  and 
touching  association  of  feelings  and  thoughts,  re- 
minding him  of  what  we  have  been  and  inay  be. 


294  APPENDIX. 

and  seeming  to  aflbrd  a  surer  ground  for  resting 
on  than  the  things  which  arc  here  to-day  and  may 
be  gone  to-morrow.  Wc  know  of  no  inquisition 
more  curious,  no  spccuhxtion  more  lofty,  than 
may  be  found  in  the  Essays  of  Charles  Lamb. 
Wc  kno\v  no  place  where  conventional  absurdi- 
ties receive  so  little  quarter  ;  where  stale  evasions 
are  so  plainly  exposed  ;  where  the  barriers  be- 
tween names  and  things  are  at  times  so  completely 
flung  down.  And  how,  indeed,  could  it  be  other- 
wise? For  it  is  truth  that  plays  upon  his  writ- 
ings like  a  genial  and  divine  atmosphere.  No 
need  for  them  to  prove  what  they  would  be  at  by 
any  formal  or  logical  analysis ;  no  need  for  him 
to  tell  the  world  that  this  institution  is  wrong  and 
that  doctrine  right ;  the  world  may  gather  from 
those  writings  their  surest  guide  to  judgment  in 
these  and  all  other  cases  —  a  general  and  honest 
appreciation  of  the  humane  and  true. 

Mr.  Lamb's  personal  appearance  was  remarka- 
ble. It  (juite  realized  the  expectations  of  those 
who  think  that  an  author  and  a  wit  should  have 
a  distinct  air,  a  separate  costume,  a  particular 
cloth,  something  i:)ositive  and  singular  about  liim. 
Such  unquestionably  had  Mr.  Laml).  Once  he 
rejoiced  in  snufl-color,  but  latterly  his  costume 
was  inveterately  black  —  with  gaiters  wliich 
seemed  longing  for  something  more  substantial 
to  close   in.     His   legs   were   remarkably  slight ; 


APPENDIX,  295 

so  indeed  was  his  whole  body,  which  was  of 
short  stature,  but  surmounted  by  a  head  of  amaz- 
ing fineness.  His  face  was  deeply  marked  and 
full  of  noble  lines  —  traces  of  sensibility,  imagi- 
nation, suffering,  and  much  thought.  His  wit 
was  in  his  eye,  luminous,  quick,  and  restless. 
The  smile  that  played  about  his  mouth  was  ever 
cordial  and  good-humored  ;  and  the  most  cordial 
and  delightful  of  its  smiles  were  those  with  which 
he  accompanied  his  affectionate  talk  with  his 
sister,  or  his  jokes  against  her. 


TALFOURD. 

\_From   Talfourd^s  '•'' Alemorials  of  C.  Lamb" 
PP-  337-8,  342-3-] 

Except  to  the  few  who  were  acquainted  with 
the  tragical  occurrences  of  Lamb's  early  life, 
some  of  his  peculiarities  seemed  strange,  — to  be 
forgiven,  indeed,  to  the  excellences  of  his  nature 
and  the  delicacy  of  his  genius,  —  but  still,  in 
themselves,  as  much  to  be  wondered  at  as  de- 
plored. The  sweetness  of  his  character,  breathed 
through  his  writings,  was  felt  even  by  strangers  ; 
but  its  heroic  aspect  was  unguessed  even  by 
many  of  his  friends.  Let  them  now  consider  it, 
and  ask  if  the  annals  of  self-sacrifice  can  show 


296  APPENDIX. 

anything  in  human  action  and  endurance  more 
lovely  than  its  self-devotion  exhiliits  !  It  was  not 
merely  that  he  saw  through  the  ensanguined 
cloud  of  misfortune  which  had  fallen  upon  his 
family,  the  unstained  excellence  of  his  sister, 
whose  madness  had  caused  it ;  that  he  was  ready 
to  take  her  to  his  own  home  with  reverential 
aflcction,  and  cherish  her  through  life  ;  that  he 
gave  up,  for  her  sake,  all  meaner  and  more 
selfish  love,  and  all  the  hopes  which  youth  blends 
with  the  passion  which  disturbs  and  ennobles  it ; 
not  even  that  he  did  all  this  cheerfully,  and  witli- 
out  pluming  hiinself  upon  his  brotherly  nobleness 
as  a  virtue,  or  seeking  to  repay  himself  (as  some 
uneasy  mart^Ts  do)  by  small  instalments  of  long 
repining, — but  that  he  canied  the  spirit  of  the 
hour  in  which  he  first  knew  and  took  liis  course, 
to  his  last.  So  far  from  thinking  tluit  his  sacri- 
fice of  youth  and  love  to  his  sister  gave  him  a 
license  to  follow  his  own  caprice  at  the  expense 
of  her  feelings,  even  in  the  lightest  matters,  he 
always  wrote  and  spoke  of  her  as  his  wiser  self, 
his  generous  benefactress,  of  whose  protecting 
care  he  was  scarcely  worthy.  How  his  pen  al- 
most grew  wanton  in  her  praise,  even  when  she 
was  a  prisoner  in  the  Asylum  after  the  fatal 
attack  of  lunacy,  iiis  letters  of  the  time  to  Cole- 
ridge show  ;  but  that  might  have  been  a  mere 
temporary   exaltation  —  tlie    attendant  feivor  of 


APPENDIX.  297 

a  great  exigency  and  a  great  resolution.     It  was 
not  so. 

Nervous,  tremulous,  as  he  seemed  —  so  light 
of  frame  that  he  looked  only  fit  for  the  most 
placid  foi-time  —  when  the  dismal  emergencies 
which  checkered  his  life  arose,  he  acted  with  as 
much  promptitude  and  vigor  as  if  he  had  never 
penned  a  stanza  nor  taken  a  glass  too  much,  or 
was  strung  with  herculean  sinews.  None  of 
those  temptations,  in  which  misery  is  the  most 
potent,  to  hazard  a  lavish  expenditure  for  an  en- 
joyment to  be  secured  against  fate  and  fortune, 
ever  tempted  him  to  exceed  his  income,  when 
scantiest,  by  a  shilling.  He  had  always  a  reserve 
for  poor  Mar^s  periods  of  seclusion,  and  some- 
thing in  hand  besides  for  a  friend  in  need ;  and 
on  his  retirement  from  the  India  House,  he  had 
amassed,  by  annual  savings,  a  sufficient  sum  (in- 
vested, after  the  prudent  and  classical  taste  of 
Lord  Stowell,  in  "  the  elegant  simplicity  of  the 
Three  per  Cents.")  to  secure  comfort  to  Miss 
Lamb,  when  his  pension  should.cease  with  him, 
even  if  the  India  Company,  his  great  employers, 
had  not  acted  nobly  by  the  memory  of  their  in- 
spired clerk  —  as  they  did — and  gave  her  the 
annuity  to  which  a  wife  would  have  been  enti- 
tled—  but  of  which  he  could  not  feel  assured. 
Living  among  literary  men,  some  less  dis- 
tinguished and   less  discreet  than   those  whom 


298  APPENDIX. 

\\c  have  mentioned,  he  was  constantly  impor- 
tuned to  rcheve  distresses  which  an  improvident 
speculation  in  literature  produces,  and  which  the 
recklessness  attendant  on  tlie  emj)tv  vanity  of 
sclf-exagj^erated  talent  renders  desperate  and 
merciless  —  and  to  the  importunities  of  such  hope- 
less petitioners  he  gave  too  largely  —  though  he 
used  sometimes  to  exj^ress  a  j^ainful  sense  that  he 
was  diminishing  his  own  store  without  conferring 
any  real  benefit.  "  Heaven,"  he  used  to  say, 
"  does  not  owe  me  sixpence  for  all  I  have  given, 
or  lent  (as  they  call  it)  to  such  importunity  ;  I 
only  gave  it  because  I  could  not  bear  to  refuse 
it ;  and  I  have  done  good  by  my  weakness." 


[i?.   W.  P.  ''Ai/icjiccum,"  January  24,  1S35.] 

I  was  acquainted  with  Mr.  Laml)  for  about 
seventeen  or  eighteen  years.  I  saw  him  lirst  (I 
think^  for  my  recollection  is  here  imperfect)  at 
one  of  Ilazlitt's  lectures,  or  at  one  of  Coleridge's 
dissertations  on  Shakespeare,  where  the  meta- 
physician sucked  oranges  and  said  a  hundred 
wonderful  things.  They  were  all  three  extraor- 
dinary men.  Ilazlitt  had  more  of  the  specula- 
tive and  philosophical  faculty,  and  more  observa- 
tion (r/rc//wspection)  than  Lamb;  whilst  Cole- 
ridge was  more  subtle  and  ingenious  than  either. 


APPENDIX.  299 

Lamb's  qualities  were  a  sincere,  generous,  and 
tender  nature,  wit  (at  command),  humor,  fancy, 
and  —  if  the  creation  of  character  be  a  test  of 
imagination,  as  I  apprehend  it  is  —  imagination 
also.  Some  of  his  phantasms  —  the  people  of 
the  South  Sea  House,  Mrs.  Battle,  the  Benchers 
of  the  Middle  Temple,  &c.  (all  of  them  ideal), 
might  be  grouped  into  comedies.  His  sketches 
are  always  (to  quote  his  own  eulogy  on  Marvell) 
full  of  "  a  witty  delicacy,"  and,  if  properly 
brought  out  and  marshalled,  would  do  honor  to 
the  stage. 

When  I  first  became  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Lamb,  he  lived,  I  think,  in  the  Temple  ;  but  I 
did  not  visit  him  then,  and  coidd  scarcely,  there- 
fore, be  said  to  kuoxv  him,  until  he  took  up  his 
residence  in  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden.  He 
had  a  first  floor  there,  over  a  brazier's  shop,  — 
since  converted  into  a  bookseller's,  —  wherein  he 
frequently  entertained  his  friends.  On  certain 
evenings  (Thursdays)  one  might  reckon  upon 
encountering  at  his  rooms  from  six  to  a  dozen 
vmaffected  people,  including  two  or  three  men  of 
letters.  A  game  at  whist  and  a  cold  supper,  fol- 
lowed by  a  cheerful  glass  (glasses  !)  and  "  good 
talk,"  were  the  standing  dishes  upon  those  oc- 
casions. If  you  came  late,  you  encountered  a 
perfume  of  the  "  great  plant."  The  pipe, 
hid  in  smoke  (the  violet  amongst  its  leaves),  —  a 


300  APPENDIX. 

squadron  of  tumblers,  fuming  with  various  odors, 
and  a  score  of  quick  intelligent  glances,  saluted 
you.  There  you  might  sec  Godwin,  Hazlitt, 
Leigh  Hunt,  Coleridge  (though  rarely),  Mr. 
Robinson,  Serjeant  Talfourd,  Mr.  Ayrton,  Mr. 
Alsager,  Mr.  Manning,  —  sometimes  Miss  Kelly, 
or  Liston,  —  Admiral  Burney,  Charles  Lloyd, 
Mr.  Alsop,  and  various  others  ;  and  if  Words- 
worth was  in  town,  you  might  stumble  upon  him 
also.  Our  friend's  brother,  John  Lamb,  was  oc- 
casionally there ;  and  his  sister  (his  excellent 
sister)  invariably  presided. 

The  room  in  which  he  lived  was  plainly  and 
almost  carelessly  furnished.  Let  us  enter  it  for 
a  moment.  Its  ornaments,  you  see,  are  princi- 
pally several  long  shelves  of  ancient  books ; 
(those  arc  his  "  ragged  veterans.")  Some  of 
Hogarth's  prints,  two  after  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
and  Titian,  and  a  portrait  of  Pope,  enrich  tlie 
walls.  At  the  table  sits  an  elderly  lady  (in 
spectacles)  reading  ;  whilst  from  an  old-fashioned 
chair  by  the  fire  springs  up  a  little  spare  man  in 
black,  with  a  countenance  pregnant  with  cx- 
I^ression,  deep  lines  in  his  forehead,  quick,  lumi- 
nous, restless  eyes,  and  a  smile  as  sweet  as  ever 
threw  sunshine  upon  the  human  face.  You  see 
that  you  are  welcome.  He  speaks :  "  Well, 
boys,  how  are  you  ?  What's  the  news  with 
you?     What  will   you   take?"     You   are   com- 


APPENDIX.  301 

fortable  in  a  moment.  Reader !  it  is  Charles 
Lamb  who  is  before  you  —  the  critic,  the  essay- 
ist, the  poet,  the  wit,  the  large-minded  Jmman 
being,  whose  apprehension  could  grasp,  without 
effort,  the  loftiest  subject,  and  descend  in  gentle- 
ness upon  the  humblest ;  who  sympathized  with 
all  classes  and  conditions  of  men,  as  readily  with 
the  sufferings  of  the  tattered  beggar  and  the  poor 
chimney-sweeper's  boy  as  with  the  starry  con- 
templations of  Hamlet  "  the  Dane,"  or  the  eagle- 
flighted  madness  of  Lear. 

The  books  that  I  have  adverted  to,  as  filling  his 
shelves,  were  mainly  English  books  —  the  poets, 
dramatists,  divines,  essayists,  &c.,  —  ranging 
from  the  commencement  of  the  Elizabeth  period 
down  to  the  time  of  Addison  and  Steele.  Be- 
sides these,  of  the  earliest  writers,  Chaucer  was 
there  ;  and,  amongst  the  moderns,  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  and  a  few  others,  whom  he  loved. 

He  had  more  real  knowledge  of  old  English 
literature  than  an}'^  man  whom  I  ever  knew.  He 
was  not  an  antiquarian.  He  neither  hunted  after 
commas,  nor  scribbled  notes  which  confounded 
his  text.  The  Spirit  of  the  author  descended 
upon  him  ;  and  he  felt  it !  With  Burton  and 
Fuller,  Jeremy  Taylor  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
he  was  an  intimate.  The  ancient  poets  —  chiefly 
the  dramatic  poets  —  were  his  especial  friends. 
He  knew  every  point  and  turn  of  their  wit,  all 


302  APPENDIX. 

the  beauty  of  their  characters ;  loving  each  for 
some  one  distinguishing  particuhir,  and  despising 
none.  For  absolute  contempt  is  a  quality  of 
youth  and  ignorance — a  foppery  which  a  wise 
man  rejects,  and  //c  rejected  it  accordingly.  If 
he  contemned  anything,  it  was  contempt  itself. 
He  saw  that  every  one  bore  some  sign  or  mark 
(God's  gift)  for  which  he  ought  to  be  valued  by 
his  fellows,  and  esteemed  a  man.  He  could  pick 
out  a  merit  from  each  author  in  his  turn,  lie  liked 
Ileywood  for  his  simplicity  and  pathos ;  Web- 
ster for  his  deep  insight  into  the  heart ;  Ben  Jon- 
son  for  his  humor ;  Marlow  for  his  "  mighty 
line  ;  "  Fletcher  for  his  wit  and  flowing  sweet- 
ness ;  and  Shakespeare  for  his  combination  of 
wonders.  He  loved  Donne  too,  and  Quarles, 
and  Manell,  and  .Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  a  long 
list  besides. 

No  one  will  love  tlic  old  English  writers  again 
as  /ic  did.  Others  may  have  a  leaning  towards 
them — a  respect  —  an  admiration  —  a  sort  of 
younrr  nian's  love  :  but  the  true  relishing  is  over  ; 
the  close  familiar  friendship  is  dissolved.  He 
who  went  back  into  dim  anticjuity,  and  sought 
them  out,  and  proclaimed  their  worth  to  the 
world  —  abandoning  the  gaudy  rhetoric  of  popu- 
lar authors  for  their  sake,  is  now  translated  into 
the  shadowy  regions  of  the  friends  he  worshipped. 
He  who  was    once   separated  from    them  by  a 


APPENDIX.  303 

hundred  lustres,  hath  surmounted  that  great  in- 
tei^val  of  time  and  space,  and  is  now,  in  a  man- 
ner, THEIR  Contemporary ! 

The  wit  of  Mr.  Lamb  was  known  to  most  per- 
sons conversant  with  existing  hterature.  It  was 
said  that  his  friends  bestowed  more  than  due 
praise  upon  it.  It  is  clear  that  his  enemies  did  it 
injustice.  Such  as  it  was,  it  was  at  all  events 
Ms  own.  He  did  not  "  get  up "  his  conversa- 
tions, nor  explore  the  hoards  of  other  wits,  nor 
rake  up  the  ashes  of  former  fii^es.  Right  or 
wrong,  he  set  to  work  unassisted  ;  and  by  dint  of 
his  own  strong  capacity  and  fine  apprehension, 
he  struck  out  as  many  substantially  new  ideas  as 
any  man  of  his  time.  The  quality  of  his  humor 
was  essentially  different  from  that  of  other  men. 
It  was  not  simply  a  tissue  of  jests  or  conceits, 
broad,  far-fetched,  or  elaborate ;  but  it  was  a 
combination  of  humor  with  pathos  —  a  sweet 
stream  of  thought,  bubbling  and  sparkling  with 
witty  fancies ;  such  as  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  elsewhere  met  with,  except  in  Shakespeare. 
There  is  occasionally  a  mingling  of  the  serious 
and  the  comic  in  "  Don  Juan,"  and  in  other 
writers ;  but  they  differ,  after  all,  materially  from 
Lamb  in  humor :  —  whether  they  are  better  or 
worse,  is  unimportant.  His  delicate  and  irrita- 
ble genius,   influenced  by  his  early  studies,  and 


304  APPENDIX. 

fettered  by  okl  associations,  moved  within  a  lim- 
ited circle.  Yet  this  was  not  witliout  its  advan- 
laj,a>s  ;  for,  whilst  it  stopped  him  from  many  bold 
(and  many  idle)  speculations  anti  theories,  it  gave 
to  his  writings  their  peculiar  charm,  their  indi- 
viduality, their  sincerity,  their  pure,  gentle  origi- 
nal character.  Wit,  which  is  "  impersonal," 
and,  for  that  very  reason  perhaps,  is  nine  times 
out  of  ten  a  mere  heartless  matter,  in  him  assumed 
a  new  shape  and  texture.  It  was  no  longer 
simply  malicious,  but  was  colored  by  a  hundretl 
gentle  feelings.  It  bore  the  rose  as  well  as  the 
thorn.  His  heart  warmed  the  jests  and  conceits 
with  which  his  brain  was  bus}-,  and  turned  them 
into  flcnvers. 

Every  one  who  knew  Mr.  Lamb,  knew  that 
his  humor  was  not  aflccted.  It  was  a  style  —  a 
habit ;  generated  by  reading  and  loving  the  an- 
cient writers,  but  adopted  in  perfect  sincerity,  and 
used  towards  all  persons  and  upon  all  occasions. 
He  w^as  the  same  in  iSio  as  in  1834  —  when  he 
died.  A  man  caimot  go  on  '' allecting  "  for  five 
aiul  twenty  years.  He  must  be  sometimes  sin- 
cere. Now,  Lamb  was  always  the  same.  I 
never  knew  a  man  upon  whom  Time  wrought  so 
little. 


